


Civil War (The Democratically Elected Remix)

by aralias



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Politics, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were friends once; now Avon’s in charge of the galaxy. (Remix of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114447">Iron Man</a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix">executrix</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Iron Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114447) by [executrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix). 



> I really tried to get this done on time, I did, I tried, but I've not only missed the first deadline - I'm going to miss the second one as well. 
> 
> The good news is I've got another 7k in addition to everything I've posted today, so I can post again next week; the bad news is I have no idea how much more there is to go after _that_. 
> 
> I do want to write something else again at some point in the future, though, so I'm going to have to stop soon before this becomes the Enigmatic Blake 2 (this time, much less enigmatic).

_“If we succeed, if we destroy Control, the Federation will be at its weakest. It will be more vulnerable than it has been for centuries. The revolt in the Outer Worlds will grow. The resistance movements on Earth will launch an all-out attack to destroy the Federation. They will need unifying. They will need a leader. **You** will be the natural choice.”_  
_“Possibly.”  
__“Don't be modest, Blake. You are the only one that they would all follow.”_ (2x5, Pressure Point)

 _“Figureheads aren't too difficult to come by. Any idiot can be one._ _”_ (4x13, Blake)

*

“Welcome back, Blake,” Avon said once he could breathe properly again.

“Thank you,” Blake said. Gently he kissed the top of Avon’s head, which was resting against his shoulder as though they might go to sleep like this. Avon’s hair was soft and silky, and it smelled faintly of vanilla. The curve of Avon’s back, which Blake was idly stroking, was also soft, though in a different way; and Blake’s brain felt soft, wrapped in contentment, stupid with happiness. “I _feel_ very welcome,” he told Avon.

“I’d offer to make you feel even better, but I have to go to a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Poor show, Avon. You can do a lot in ten minutes.”

“This is all sounding very familiar,” Avon said wryly.

Unable to let an opportunity for smugness pass, he continued, “And obviously I _can,_ but what I’m actually going to do is lie here for another minute or so until I’m sure I can stand. Then I’m going to get dressed. And then I’m going to go to my meeting.”

“Important meeting?” Blake asked, the haze inside his brain clearing.

“More important than you, you mean? No, probably not, but I’m going to go to it anyway. The Minister of Education, I think. Classroom sizes, additions to the curriculum––”

“ _Very_ important, then,” Blake said. He was internally delighted that Avon had picked _this_ day for his shuttle to arrive back on Earth. Avon’s flightplan would have told him the distance to Earth from the colony world Blake had been stranded on after what was being alternately called ‘The Short War’ or 'The Andromedan War', and the speed that the shuttle could travel at, and had produced this day as a valid ETA. Avon would have known that, and must have scheduled appropriate meetings around the hour he’d cleared in his calendar for Blake’s arrival. Off the top of his head, Blake couldn’t think of anything _more_ important than education – and they were going to talk about it in five minutes, were they? Perfect. Everything was perfect.

“You’re right,” Avon said as though he’d just realised that education was important, too. “What am I doing here with you? Blake, this has all been a terrible mistake––”

He tried to get up and disentangle himself from the sheets and Blake’s arms, but Blake hadn’t released him so the attempt was fairly brief. Then Avon abandoned it altogether and slumped back into Blake’s arms with a smile.

“Well, we knew that,” Blake said as Avon leaned up to kiss him. Earlier kisses had been desperate things – Avon trying to take control of his mouth and savage him. This was much gentler (as though Avon was assured of his conquest and was delighted by it) but just as lovely.

“Mm. You know, I really do have to go to that meeting,” Avon reminded him between warm, soft slides of lips.

Grudgingly, and with one final caress, Blake released him.

Having checked it wasn’t a trap and he wasn’t about to be dragged back under, Avon stood. For a moment, it seemed he couldn’t remember where his clothes had ended up – Blake watched the round curve of Avon’s arse, and considered biting him and possibly dragging him back into bed – then Avon turned around, as though he could tell exactly what Blake was thinking. Blake grinned at him.

“Your office,” he said of the clothes.

“I _was_ wondering,” Avon admitted, and wandered back in that direction, naked feet padding on the wood floor.

Blake’s clothes had been discarded in roughly the same area, so he levered himself out of bed and followed Avon, picking up his shirt from where it had been flung over a chair-back.

“Are they going to deal with recent history?” he asked, as he pulled the shirt over his head. “Zircaster, the Short War––?”

His head emerged from the collar and he found Avon inches in front of him, drawing him into another open-mouthed kiss as though he had barely been able to stand the moments they’d been separated. Apparently Avon had managed to get his underwear on in that interval, but nothing else.

Blake wrapped his arms around Avon’s naked back and pulled him closer, pressing light kisses against Avon’s smiling lips before pushing his tongue in to claim Avon’s mouth more thoroughly as Avon’s fingertips dug into his hair. Almost eight months apart had made it clear to both of them how they felt about each other – and now they were making up for lost time, as single-mindedly as newly weds.

“How much can you do in ten minutes again?” Avon murmured in the gap between the two of them. One of his hands slid downwards under the edge of Blake’s shirt – and he sucked in a breath as though he liked it when Blake caught his wrist to arrest its progress.

“I’m afraid it’s _five_ minutes now,” Blake reminded him, capturing Avon’s other hand pre-emptively.

“And how much can you do in five minutes?” Avon asked warmly, but he drew away and picked up his own shirt from the floor.

Blake’s trousers were in the same heap. Avon tossed them to Blake one handed as he slid his left arm into the relevant sleeve of his shirt. Blake was half-way through pulling up his own underwear and almost fumbled the catch, but Avon had timed the throw well and Blake had both his hands free as the bundle of cloth hit his midriff. The specific activity was new, but the rhythm was familiar. They’d always thrown tools and weapons to each other, confident that they knew what the other needed and when they would be ready for it.  

Avon grinned at him, his hands now doing up the final button on his shirt. Blake fought the urge to kiss him again –  _that_ seemed likely to end in the two of undoing their good work and undressing each other. Blake pulled on his trousers instead, watching Avon do much the same thing over the other side of the room. Across the room, Avon noticed he was being watched and raised his eyebrows. Blake shook his head, smiling and returned to his own clothes.

“Why didn’t we do this before?” he said, more to himself really, than to Avon.

He’d wanted it, certainly, and Avon must have wanted it too, which Blake had suspected, actually, at the time, though he’d never acted on it. But it had seemed like a very bad idea back on the Liberator. They were fighting a war; they were confined within a limited space they couldn’t afford to leave; and Avon, who could be both achingly kind and generous, was often so vile about important things that Blake veered between wanting to propose to him and wanting to throw him out of an airlock.

“I didn’t ask,” Avon said. “Neither did you,” he added, summarising all of these objections and others neatly and only slightly inaccurately.

“An oversight,” Blake said, doing the much the same. Avon rolled his eyes and began looking around for his jacket.

“Actually,” Blake said as he sat down on Avon’s office chair to pull on his shoes, “I don’t recall you _asking_ this time, either.”

They hadn’t even spoken – perhaps that was why it had finally happened. No chance to get angry at each other. The door to Avon’s office had closed behind Blake. He’d been weary and feeling awkward after the long flight during which Vila had talked _at_ him non-stop about Avon even after Blake had asked him kindly to stop. Blake barely had time to register that the room did indeed contain Avon, who looked good, unbelievably good, before Avon had dragged him into a desperate kiss. After a moment’s surprise, Blake had kissed him back, just as desperately.

It had been their first – a strange, unexpected, crashing of teeth and lips that melted into a soft and steady heat as they worked out how they each fit around the other.

From there, Avon had pulled him into a small anteroom where there was a bed, and the cameras could be turned off, as the two of them gasped and panted into each others mouths and tugged at each others clothes. Blake’s common sense had tried to suggest he should try and _talk_ to Avon before they fell into sex – about how he felt, whether this was the start of a relationship, whether Avon had been in love with Blake on the Liberator as Blake had been in love with him. But by that time Avon had managed to get Blake’s trousers down, and had just bent to take Blake’s cock deep into his mouth in one greedy swallow.

 _Later,_ Blake had told himself as Avon (god, he could hardly believe it was happening) moaned as sucked Blake’s cock deeper, fondling his balls with a hand that seemed to tremble, as though Avon had been waiting for this opportunity to make love to Blake for years and could barely believe it was finally happening, either. _Later._

Now Avon smiled, pleased with himself and presumably with Blake.

“Well,” he said, “I wasn’t president before. I didn’t always take what I wanted immediately.”

Blake began to laugh, mostly at Avon’s joke, but also because he still found the idea of _Avon_ (who had barely been interested in leading the odd away-mission) _in charge_ of hundreds of planets hilarious. He understood why it had happened, to some extent, and Avon actually seemed to have done relatively well, which Blake found both touching and erotic, but it was still funny. 

He continued to laugh even as Avon’s expression turned sour. “You _are_ joking,” Blake said, trying to stop laughing in case Avon wasn’t.

Avon chose not to answer. There were a lot of acetates stacked on his desk, which looked like it was the one Servalan had probably used when this large, gilt and white office had been hers. Avon sorted through the acetates for a while, and withdrew a chip card from amongst the piles.

“I’ve sorted out a Civil List pension for you,” he explained, pushing the chip into Blake’s hand. “Services to the Restoration and so forth. You should be able to draw some cash from any cashpoint.”

So it _wasn’t_ a joke.  

“You weren’t exactly sent to Cygnus Alpha for accepting your lot and waiting your turn,” Blake said, trying to explain to Avon why what he’d said was clearly ludicrous and gentle him at the same time. “None of us were.”

Avon seemed to find that bitterly amusing – his mouth twisted in a brief rictus grin, and then distant non-expression was back. “You also have a flat at the edge of the centre ring – I arranged that for you as well. It’s small, but larger than your rooms on the Liberator, so you should be comfortable.”

That _was_ disappointing, though Blake knew he could live with it. But for some reason he’d assumed that he’d be moved into Residence One immediately, staying with Avon until a changeover could be effected after which point Avon would stay with _him._

“If you give the credit chip to a driver they’ll pick up your address and take you there,” Avon said. “I’d offer to let you wait here, but the cleaning lady generally stops by at around four – I don’t want either of you to feel awkward.”

“When?” Blake said, feeling they’d skipped several conversational tracks while he hadn’t noticed. “Not the cleaning lady––” Too late he realised he was being rude, and hastened to correct himself. “Thank you, obviously, but – when am I waiting? Waiting for what?”

“Well,” Avon said, looking confused, but underneath that looking distinctly wary as well, “I’ve got meetings for the rest of the afternoon. I’d have thought you were the last person who’d want the business of democracy to be disrupted just because an old friend dropped by.”

“What?” Blake said stupidly.

“You’re right,” Avon said, busying himself with the business of leaving, which at this point mostly seemed to involve straightening his very white gloves. “That’s not how I’d describe you either, but we didn’t have time to discuss a better word for it. Tonight, perhaps. I’ll come round at about eight.”

He leant forward to kiss Blake on the cheek – a politician’s kiss, or the kiss of an absentminded husband leaving a housewife behind as he left for work. He clearly intended it to be a parting shot, whatever it was, but Blake caught him by the wrist again.

“Avon,” he said clearly, even though he was sure he didn’t have to explain this to Avon, “I’m coming _with_ you.”

What on Earth did Avon think he had to do that was more important than discussing the tools that would be used to mould the minds of the next generation? And that was only _one_ of the meetings that Avon presumably had lined up for the rest of the afternoon.

“Ah,” Avon said. “I wondered whether you might think that. As it happens, you aren’t.”

“I’m not tired,” Blake protested, trying again to laugh it off. The journey had been long, true, and Vila had barely stopped talking at any point, and then Blake had come straight here and had engaged in almost an hour of intense sexual intercourse, but _this_ was why he was here. The work. Well, Avon and the work, perhaps, but there wasn’t even a need to prioritise one over the other at the moment, because Avon was doing the work and would presumably continue to be involved. “Even if I _were_ ––”

“I don’t think you’re tired,” Avon said. “That’s not why, but I’d prefer not to discuss this right now. Eight o’clock?” He turned towards the door again.

“Avon, if I don’t attend these sorts of things, how do you expect me to have any idea what’s going on and what needs to be done?”

“Well, obviously, I don’t,” Avon said neutrally.

“What?” Blake said again. He laughed again, trying to cover the awkward tension, feeling the situation slipping away from him as though he were hanging at the edge of a cliff and his fingers were losing their grip. “Avon––”

“I don’t want you involved,” Avon said. “I don’t want you to come to any of my meetings, I don’t want you to turn them into your meetings, I don’t want you to advise me on policy because then I might as well turn over the presidency to you now––”

“But you _are_ turning the presidency over to me.”

“ _What_?” Avon said, seeming genuinely surprised now.

“No, you’re _not_ turning the presidency over to me,” Blake said as the truth became inescapably clear. “Not even just now, not _ever_? You won’t even take my advice?”

“Of course I’m not turning the presidency over to you,” Avon said, face twisting in a frown. “What do I look like, an idiot?”

Blake exhaled bitterly. “No, never an idiot, Avon. But you do look like exactly what you are – a man who cares more about his own _wardrobe_ than he does about the suffering of anyone else.”

Avon flinched. “A flattering portrayal,” he said. “I had no idea you thought so highly of me. Tell me, Blake, why did you sleep with me? As a reward for my careful stewardship of your job, or more generally to get ahead? I apologise. I was stupid enough to think you actually liked me.”

“I _love_ you,” Blake snarled, the thing slipping out as an insult when he’d wanted to say it and mean it. _Later._ “I just had no idea you would do this to me!”

He swung away from Avon, unable to look at him any more. He leant heavily instead on Avon’s desk, which had been Servalan’s before, and would presumably pass (following an influx of funds to Avon’s bank account) to someone equally corrupt in about thirty years after Avon had grown bored with the job. Blake felt the childish urge to sweep all the acetates and datapads onto the floor, or perhaps to pick up the desk and heave the whole thing over onto its side.

He’d been so happy, such a little time ago. And now everything he’d thought he’d had – a chance to make a difference, a clever and supportive partner – had been shown to be as false as those message tapes the Federation had shown him from his dead siblings.

Worse, he could tell he was dealing with it badly. Why had he said ‘to me’? That sounded petty – no, worse: it sounded entitled. That wasn’t what he meant. He hadn’t been lying a year ago when he’d told Avon that he didn’t want to be president. He was _sure_ he hadn’t lied, and he _hadn’t_ wanted it then, but over the past few weeks he’d become used to the idea that Avon had secured the job for him. Avon had never had any designs on the presidency, aside from one brief suggestion that they could use Star One to control the Federation, which Blake had assumed at the time was a botched sort of gift that Avon wanted to give _him_ , like Travis’s death. He’d assumed this was the same thing – not something he’d wanted, but better than most alternatives, and clearly arising from Avon’s respect, perhaps even _love,_ for him.  

He’d allowed himself to start making plans, things he could do with Avon at his side.

But if Avon truly wanted to be president then not only was none of that true, or likely to happen; Blake didn’t even know the man he’d slept with an hour before. And he had no idea what such a man would do with the reins of power he’d never seemed to want.

Blake had expected to hear the swish of the office door opening, as Avon left him to his petulant sulk to deal with affairs of state. Instead there came the sound of knocking from the other side of the door. A muffled voice said,

“Mister President – your three o’clock?”

“One moment,” Avon said from somewhere very close behind Blake. Avon’s hand came to rest on his arm, and Blake almost leant into it, his body remembering Avon pushing him out of the way of gunfire; coming back for him on Horizon; holding the gap at Star One; pushing his cock inside Blake for the first time, his face so anxious and so desperate until Blake had leaned up to kiss him at which point Avon had moaned as though he were dying and stopped being so gentle. Almost. Instead, Blake focused on a particularly ugly paperweight Avon seemed to have acquired, and thought about how much he would enjoy throwing it at Avon’s head.

“I know you can’t possibly think of it this way,” Avon said quietly, “but it is … supposedly … a compliment.”

“A _compliment?”_ Blake said, voice rising again as he turned to glare at Avon. “ _You_ told me, Avon – you told me _yourself_ that I should do this job. You know I would do it properly. Now you don’t even want my opinion about class sizes. How is _that_ a compliment?”

“You have always made me want to be a better man,” Avon said. “I am doing this, in a way, for you. I know how little you respect me––”

“What?” Blake said, more aghast by this than by anything that had happened so far. Instinctively, although he would never have done it on the Liberator, he tried to gather Avon into his arms, pressing kisses to Avon’s eyelids. “Avon – sweetheart, how can you say that?”

“Just a moment ago,” Avon said vaguely, “you said I cared more about clothes than about other people.”

“I was angry,” Blake protested, leaving out the fact that he was still furious.

“You were honest,” Avon said. “And to your credit, I have never done or said anything to disprove that statement. The best I have ever done is occasionally follow your instructions when they benefited others. No wonder you don’t respect me.”

“I respect you,” Blake told him firmly. “I wouldn’t have slept with you if I didn’t respect you. I respect your intelligence, your wit, your courage––”

“Kind,” Avon said, “but insincere. Or perhaps,” he thought about this as he extracted himself from Blake’s embrace, “no, not insincere – but not enough, either. I refuse to be a particularly intelligent, humorous and courageous follower you occasionally deign to fuck. Well, now I’m in the president of the Terran Domes. That must be worth something.”

“You realise what you’re saying sounds _insane?”_ Blake said before he could stop himself. “And that you’re putting thousands of people’s lives in danger with this ludicrous scheme?”

“No,” Avon said. “How am I putting people’s lives in danger?”

“Because you don’t know what you’re doing!” Blake protested.

Avon smiled thinly. “Tell me again how much you respect me, Blake. I didn’t believe it the first time, but now I think I’m getting it.”

“Mister President?” the voice from outside said again, and Avon turned and walked back towards it without giving Blake another look.

“All _right_ ,” Blake said, following him across the beautifully laminated floor, “I’m sorry. I do understand _exactly_ the point you’re making, and I can see why you feel the need to make it, but you would still be the one making the decisions if you let me come with you, if you let me help you––”

“I don’t think so,” Avon said. “And if I give in to you now, and let you come with me – well, that would just be the first in a long line of decisions you’d eventually talk me out of, wouldn’t it, Blake? Don’t argue. I know you too well. And I _do,_ actually, respect you.”

The doors swished open and Avon stepped out into the corridor. Blake made an attempt to follow him, but either Avon had managed somehow to signal to his guards that he wanted Blake detained, or they naturally sprang into action when irate men began grabbing at the president.

“If you’ll just come with me, sir, we’ll get you a cab home,” the largest and the widest of the guards said to Blake as he was steered in the opposite direction to the one Avon had taken.

“Good luck,” Blake muttered. The Liberator had been his home and now it was off god knows where, performing the role of flagship in something probably only euphemistically called ‘the Defence Fleet’. The news feeds Blake had seen, and some of Vila’s earlier prattle, had suggested Jenna was at the helm of the fleet as its Admiral, which was something. But if she was acting on orders from _this_ president, who knew what she was leading the fleet to? Death and glory, perhaps. Ironic given that she was working for Avon.

To think – when he’d arrived in this building a few hours before, he’d thought he might well soon have to start thinking of _this place_ as home. Now _that_ was ironic.

“What was that, sir?” the guard said.

“Nothing,” Blake said. He rallied himself as he had always done for public appearances. It was no good coming across as insane, foaming at the mouth with rage, even to Avon’s hired thugs. That was not how he was going to win. “Thank you very much for your help. Please do tell the president how much I appreciated his, ah, hospitality.”

“I’m sure the president will be pleased to hear that, sir,”

 _I bet he will,_ Blake thought irritably.

*

The taxi driver recognised him. Blake sat through a few minutes of awkward chitchat about what it had really been like on Star One, what the Andromedans had looked like, and what it had been like working with Avon, and then he lapsed into silence, staring moodily out of the window while he chewed one of his nails. Perhaps it would have been a good idea to try and convert this one man to his point of view, but apparently Avon had granted mini-cab drivers exemption from the congestion charge, which made him all right in the cabby’s eyes. That sort of viewpoint was unlikely to be swayed by small things such as institutional incompetence, or a lack of compassion for the common man.

Blake also felt tired and depressed – he would do better, he knew, after some time to sleep and plan. Better, as with the guards at Avon’s door, _not_ to make that sort of name for himself as an anti-establishment lunatic. Not yet, anyway.

“And what have you been doing with yourself since the Short War?” the driver asked eventually. “You were a big name there, for a while.”

Blake scowled out through the window. _That_ was an even less appealing topic of conversation than Avon. He’d tried to explain what he’d done during the last eight months to Vila during the shuttle ride back to Earth – this had been in between Vila’s tales of the many fascinating and unlikely things that had happened to him and to Avon and the others since the war. Vila had said something like, _I’m sure you’ve been up to loads of interesting stuff too, Blake,_ in a kindly voice, but all that had happened to Blake in the same period was that he’d crash-landed somewhere inhospitable and had to recover from two broken legs, as well as Travis’s lazeron shot to his chest. Yes, he’d also helped reorganise the hospital infrastructure and had assisted in the recovery of numerous other patients, but (for all he made the effort) Vila didn’t seem to find that very interesting. Oh, and Blake didn’t blame him – he didn’t find his own trauma more interesting than the complete reorganisation of central Administration, either. But it grew tiring after a few hours, being the person whose role was to listen and prompt Vila to return to the narrative when Vila got distracted by talking about his newest clothes.

“I was injured,” Blake told the taxi driver shortly, without taking his fingers from his mouth. “Twice.”

“Hard luck,” the driver said. He nodded towards a large screen they were passing, which had just lit up in an image of Avon’s face in time for his traditional afternoon broadcast. “That could have been you, I bet. If you’d pushed for it.”

“Really,” Blake said flatly, and took to glaring out of the other window instead.

*

The flat Avon had bought for him to … well, presumably just _exist_ passively in turned out to be enormous. During the four years Blake had been re-programmed to act as a model member of society, he had lived in one of the nicer apartments in the dome – the Federation brainshrinks had theorised that he was less likely to fall back into rebellion if he wasn’t dissatisfied with his lot, even in comparison with other highly privileged alphas.

 _This_ apartment was about twice the size of that one. It was only _small_ in comparison to the presidential palace.

It was also filled with things that were not only expensive, but also often clearly very valuable antiques, of the kind that should have been in a museum or at the very least the private collection of a connoisseur like Sarkoff.

The small, grubby apartment that Blake had half expected from Avon’s initial description would have felt bitterly like an estimation of his worth. At the back of his mind Blake knew that he would have been horrified and angry to have been driven to such a place, but the idea of Avon trying to _buy_ him was horrible too. As was the idea of what it must have _cost_ to try and buy him.

Blake was already incandescently angry by the time he arrived at the flat, and he found the size of place and the quality of its furnishings completely unacceptable.

“We could feed a large colony for a _decade_ with this!” he shouted at Avon, who wasn’t even there to admit his mistake. Still, it gave Blake vicious pleasure though to pull the paintings from the walls, and stack them against the doorway, to push the inlaid cabinets together and, for now, cover them with one of the expensive throws that had previously been arranged over what was fortunately a perfectly standard sofa. Everything would _have_ to be removed tomorrow. And if possible he would try and find another flat to live in. Avon could use the sale of this one to fund a new waistcoat, or extensive leisure facilities for five of the poorest delta quadrants.

Once the furnishings were out of the way, Blake turned his attention to the electronic equipment Avon had provided, which Blake had allowed himself to keep as it was fairly standard and he would need it to achieve anything at all. To his relief, there didn’t seem to be any blocks preventing him from accessing public data (of which, to give Avon credit, there was now a lot more – in the six months that Avon had been in power, the number of accessible pages had more than quadrupled). Blake sent out a variety of messages in a variety of codes to the people he remembered knowing on Earth, letting them know he was back. He also located Avalon’s data string and pinged it with a recognisable ident so that she would come looking for him.

Then he set a quick search running to see if there was any public data about the meetings Avon had refused to involve him with today. The top result was an archived version of the afternoon broadcast Blake had seen out of the window on his drive home. Having watched all of the previous editions of Avon’s afternoon Presidential address, Blake knew this would be mostly a fluff piece. if It referred to any real work, it would refer only to decisions that had already been made long ago, decisions that had already resulted in changes that had been already greeted positively by the populace. Still – occasionally he would mention a particularly momentous meeting. It was worth looking, and Blake dialled it up.

Avon’s face filled the monitor on the wall, wearing the same closed expression Blake had seen on the billboard-screen. For a moment, Blake felt a familiar wrenching in his chest – the same pain that he’d felt every day as he’d watched Avon speaking about the good work he was doing somewhere Blake wasn’t where he couldn’t reach him. 

Then Avon began speaking, “Well, it’s been another great day for freedom––” and Blake snarled,

“Pause recording,” and went to get himself a drink. When he returned with the glass of scotch (Avon had also fitted out a truly excellent spirits cabinet – allowing for some very satisfying breakages if the evening got worse), he saw Avon’s frozen image hanging over his bare living room. He considered watching more of the recording, and decided against it.

“Computer, call Admiral Jenna Stannis,” he said, slumping onto the sofa in front of the screen, which went dark, absorbing Avon’s image, and then filled with a wash of green numbers and letters.

Blake rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of the hand not holding the scotch. Talking to Jenna, whom he had not seen in as long as he had not seen Avon, would (he knew) help him to make sense of this. He could talk this through with her, and she would point out that Avon was being unreasonable, but that Blake was behaving badly, which wasn’t helping. Blake knew all of this, but he also knew he needed to talk it through before he could do anything appropriate.

“Jenna Stannis is not currently located in any of the Terran domes,” the computer intoned.

“I know that,” Blake said patiently. “Contact the Zen computer aboard the Liberator, and patch me through to Jenna.”

The computer processed this command for a moment, the numbers and letters flickering, and then said,

“Jenna Stannis is not currently located in any of the Terran domes.”

Blake supposed there had probably been limited need for any standard device to call outside Earth before Avon’s reign had begun. Perhaps the computer simply did not have the capability yet. He could probably re-wire the entire device and _make_ it work, but it would be simpler to write a message that Zen would pick up, or he could ask Avon how to get in contact with Jenna. He didn’t want to do any of those options right now, though, so Jenna would have to wait.  

“Computer, contact Cally of Auron,” he said instead.

“Cally of Auron is not––”

“––currently located in any of the Terran domes,” Blake finished with it, feeling his frustration rise again from the comparatively neutral position it had been when he’d gone to get the whisky. What had Avon done with all of their people? Given them good jobs, presumably, but sent them as far away as possible.

“Vila Restal?” Blake asked. “He _must_ still be in this dome. He arrived with me this morning.”

Again, another pause as the computer considered this. And then it said, “Connecting you to Vila Restal.”

Blake felt a surge of triumph, even though his last experience with Vila had been strained and difficult, and he had no reason to believe Vila would have that much sympathy with the fact that Avon wasn’t involving him in the work of government. Perhaps, if he’d thought more before the instruction, Blake could have worked out a way to put this to Vila that Vila might have empathised with (“You know, Vila, Avon is just – well, he’s a bastard, isn’t he? A complete and utter _bastard_ ”), but never mind. At least he had someone to talk to who wasn’t Avon, or a stranger, _about_ Avon.

Vila’s face appeared on the screen. He looked awkward, which wasn’t a good sign. He also seemed to be wearing a coat. “Oh, hi Blake,” he said, with a quick flicker of a smile. “Long time no see. Listen, I’d love to chat, but––”

“Vila,” Blake said firmly, before Vila could weasel out of the conversation, “did you know that––”

“I’m just about to go out,” Vila said, equally unwilling to be dissuaded.

“––Avon plans to actually _stay on_ as president?”

“You see I’ve been away a long time,” Vila said. “Collecting you, actually.”

“And _worse––”_ Blake said.

“And I promised Sherey that we’d go out when I got back.”

“––he absolutely _refuses_ to consult me about _anything,_ ” Blake finished triumphantly. “Did you know that?”

“Yes,” Vila said. “I mean no. I mean – what was the question again? Actually, no, don’t tell me – I do have to go out. I promised. But, er, I promise I’ll call you soon, Blake. Computer – end call.”

His image faded rapidly in from the edges of the screen, and then was replaced by the earlier frozen shot of Avon’s face.

“You paused this recording three minutes and twenty-two seconds ago,” the computer said. “Do you wish to resume playback?”

“Yes,” Blake said irritably, “why not?”

As Avon started talking again (“New figures show that our GDP has increased by approximately––”), Blake got up and went to re-fill his glass.

*

Four and a half hours and six glasses of scotch later, the computer received an encrypted request for a voice conference from an unknown source.

“Request accepted,” Blake said, genuinely excited for the first time since he’d entered the flat. He sat forward on the sofa. Avalon, surely. None of his contacts on Earth had reason to conceal their identity, and he hadn’t managed to send a message to Jenna or Cally yet.

“It’s eight o’clock,” Avon’s voice said from the speaker by the monitor. “We had an appointment of a sort, but I don’t recall you actually agreeing to it, and I didn’t want to come round if you were still angry.”

The part of Blake that was drunk, and still wanted to lash out, considered swearing at Avon and telling him to go away. But the rest of him remembered the decision he’d made while the guard had been escorting him out. He needed to be taken seriously, particularly by Avon. He needed _Avon,_ perhaps more than he’d ever needed Avon before. At the moment, Avon was stubborn and intractable, but wasn’t he always? Avon had never exactly welcomed the idea of accompanying Blake on hit-and-run missions to Federation bases; he had held out longer than the rest of the crew against the idea of going to Control, but Blake had persuaded him – or, actually, in that case Avon had merely changed his mind. But it showed it _was possible_ for him to change his mind.

It wouldn’t be possible for Avon to change his mind if Blake pushed him away, though, if he showed himself to be unfit for the power and respect that he wanted Avon to give him. 

“I’m not angry,” he said carefully.

“You’re lying,” Avon’s voice said, sounding slightly amused.

“Possibly,” Blake agreed, thinking, _So much for that._

“So, I shouldn’t come round.”

“Oh, I think that’s your choice, Avon,” Blake said. He rolled the latest whisky around in its glass, leaning back against the cushions. “Possibly the choice of your security people, depending on what you think I might do to you.”

“I don’t think my security people need to see what I think you might do to me,” Avon said.

Blake raised an eyebrow. Avon’s voice was warm and insinuating – it had effectively done what it had set out to do and gone straight to Blake’s cock. Blake shifted on the sofa in a way that did almost nothing to disperse the tight feeling in his trousers.

He hadn’t been thinking about sex all afternoon. The issue was _not_ whether or not he was sexually or even romantically attracted to Avon, and it never had been. The _issue_ was whether or not the right policies were going to be made for the citizens of the former-Federation at this extremely delicate point in history. Taking sex from Avon now he knew what Avon intended to do with him (nothing at all) was a terrible idea. It would make Avon think what he was doing was acceptable, and it felt ... seedy. Blake knew he could potentially sleep with Avon _enough_ that Avon felt bound to him and relented and gave him access to Space Command or the Ministry of Education, or that he could sleep with Avon just enough that Avon became addicted and then strategically withhold favours, but he did actually _like_ Avon; more than like him. And while he’d done some terrible things for the cause of freedom in the past, Blake _did_ still have some self respect. It wasn’t a good idea to do that to either of them.

“You’re right – you shouldn’t come round,” he said.

“I– All right, I shouldn’t, but what about if I want to?” Avon said, trying for the same relaxed, confident tone of his previous statement, but missing. He hadn’t expected, even after everything that had happened, that Blake would turn him away. It should have felt like a triumph, one that hardened Blake’s resolve, but actually he found Avon’s sudden uncertainty … sweet. Appealing.

“We don’t have to have sex,” Avon’s voice continued and Blake pressed the whisky glass hard against his lips. He liked the way Avon said _sex._ He liked the way Avon said most things, but this was particularly interesting. “I just want to talk.”

“Fine,” Blake said, after a moment, “if you insist – we can _talk._ Computer – end transmission. _”_

There would be more than enough time, he thought as he got to his feet, to take care of himself while Avon took a car from the palace across the city to the apartment. That would keep him from being even _slightly_ tempted by sex when Avon was here. Twice in one day was already far more than Blake thought probable or reasonable – three times (twice within a few hours) would be impossible. They could talk, and then Avon could go.

Someone knocked at the door. Resigned, Blake put his glass on the floor and walked over to press the door release. Avon, of course, but far earlier than should have been possible. He was wearing the same crisply starched clothes as he had been wearing in the broadcast, and when Blake had been shown into his office earlier. He looked good – dangerously so. A few more minutes would certainly have helped, but this apparently wasn’t the sort of day where Blake got what he wanted or needed.

“You’ve built another teleport,” Blake observed as he stood back to let Avon enter.

“What?” Avon said. Then he laughed slightly. “Ah, no – I was waiting outside. I’m glad you let me in – I’d already sent the driver home.”

That should have been insulting – Avon had been so sure of himself and his victory that he’d just waited until Blake backed down – but again, Blake was taken by surprise by his own feelings. The idea of Avon, the president of a galaxy, lurking outside in a corridor, trying to sweet-talk his way into an apartment he owned was ridiculous, adorable and funny, like a cat suddenly drenched in cold water. Blake grinned at Avon, who could have lied about the whole thing to make himself look better. Avon grinned back. For a moment it was like none of the past few hours had happened and they were back at the newly wed stage of their relationship again.

“Would you like a drink?” Blake asked, moving towards the kitchen. 

“Water,” Avon said. “Thank you.” He looked around for somewhere to sit, and then up at the walls where the paintings he had perhaps hand-selected no longer hung.

“Well, I love what you’ve done with the place,” he said wryly as he accepted a glass of water from Blake. He settled himself on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other. It was a large sofa, but not large enough for comfort. Blake pulled a spindly chair off the pile of furniture by the doorway, and sat on it, about a metre away from Avon. 

“I take it all _that_ will be gone by tomorrow,” Blake said, gesturing towards the pile with a hand.

“I’ll have someone collect it,” Avon agreed.

“There are other people vastly more in need of the credits it must have taken to purchase it than I am.”

“I thought you deserved it,” Avon said, which he might have meant to be flattering, but which was like a spark in a thatched roof.  

“You thought you could buy me off,” Blake retorted.

Avon’s mouth twisted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I thought you knew me, Avon. Nobody who knows me would seriously think for _one second_ that I would willingly spend the rest of my life sitting around in a luxury apartment, doing nothing while unjust laws were passed and enforced.”

“I never expected you to,” Avon said. “I thought you might refuse all this, but I wanted to offer it to you anyway, because I do think you deserve it.”

“For _what_ exactly?” Blake demanded. What could Avon possibly think he’d done that was worthwhile, given that Avon refused to let him do any of it again? “Being a good fuck?”

Avon ignored all of that, though he did wince slightly. “As for doing nothing, no – I didn’t expect that of you either. I don’t want you involved in my work––”

“––which is the only thing _worth_ doing.”

“Actually, there are several other things you could do,” Avon said. “Some are things that _only_ you could do. Leading the new teleport design-project, for example––”

This time it was Blake’s turn to scoff. “I hardly think building you a new cash cow is the sort of rewarding work that will help me sleep at night, Avon.”

“Then you haven’t thought about what the teleport could do in the _right_ hands,” Avon said, his face gaining some animation at last as he leant forward. “The Federation would have used the teleport to deploy troops of conquest. My government would use it to transport food, to move colonists onto new homes, to evacuate populations from the scenes of natural disaster––”

“And for conquest?” Blake suggested.

“I already own more of the galaxy than I thought likely,” Avon said. He smiled slightly. “I don’t think I need any more, do you?”

Blake shook his head. “There are other places that we could and _should_ help.” He shifted himself from the chair to the sofa, so he was sitting next to Avon where he could properly command his attention. “What about worlds where the Federation still rules? Or there are plenty of other dictators who are just as bad – Epheron, the planet where I crash-landed, is only _neutral_ in the sense that it wasn’t part of the Federation or a rebel stronghold. The people there live in poverty, the medical facilities are appalling. That’s why it took me almost six months to recover the use of my legs. We should at least _consider_ helping them.”

“Or,” Avon said, as though this hadn’t happened, “if you don’t want to be involved with the teleport project––”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to be involved with the teleport project,” Blake said firmly. “I agree––”

“If you don’t want to be involved in the teleport project,” Avon said again, his gaze losing focus again, “you could be very useful as an ambassador, like Cally. Lindor, Horizon, Albion – all of these places would welcome you with open arms.”

“I _agree_ that this government could use a teleport for good,” Blake persisted. “What I don’t necessarily agree with––”

“Or, if you’d like to stay on Earth, we’re beginning to gain access to the restricted archives––”

“––is the scope of what those ideas are,” Blake continued. “Avon, will you please listen to me!”

“Not until you stop trying to tell me how to do my job, no,” Avon said, his gaze snapping back to Blake’s face. “You can be sure I won’t try to tell you how to reverse-engineer the Liberator’s teleport system.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Blake said, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. “I expect you’d be better at it than I would. Or at least have a valuable contribution to make.”

Avon smiled thinly. “Possibly.” 

Feeling suddenly exhausted, Blake said, “How long is this going to go on for, Avon?”

“I don’t know,” Avon said after a moment in which he presumably considered pretending not to understand what Blake was asking, and decided against it. “I expect at some point we’ll hold democratic elections, and I won’t be voted back in.”

“So you _are_ planning on holding elections?” Blake said, raising the hand that had been rubbing his eyes so that he could look at Avon. The matter-of-fact way Avon had stated the issue surprised him for some reason, though it shouldn’t have. Clearly it surprised Avon that it was even under debate.

“Why replace one dictatorship with another?”

Despite all his resolutions earlier, Blake leaned forwards and pressed his lips to Avon’s, opening his mouth when Avon didn’t draw away, and pushing in to rub Avon’s tongue with his own when Avon sighed into him. He could blame the alcohol later if it seemed later like a bad idea, but at the moment it felt good, as good as Avon was trying to be. Avon’s hands came up to grasp his shoulders, and then push him backwards gently.

“You really do have a very low opinion of me, don’t you, Blake?” Avon said softly, his nose still resting against Blake’s, pressing lightly into his cheek.

“I don’t,” Blake assured him. “I have such a high opinion of you, and what you’re doing here, that it hurts not to be a part of it. Can’t you see that?”

“You _are_ a part of it,” Avon said, threading his hands through Blake’s hair. “You are the reason it is happening. You are the reason I am doing any of this, and incidentally the reason I’ve done anything at all since I met you aboard the London.”

Blake shuddered against him as Avon kissed him back – that was the confession he had almost expected Avon might make earlier in the day, but, as with Avon’s insistence on the business of democracy, this took him by surprise in the straightforward way it was said, from Avon, of all people, who must truly mean it; who must, in fact, mean it even more than he claimed to, if he’d been able to say this much out loud.

“Stay here tonight,” Blake told him huskily between kisses as he tried to climb further into Avon’s lap. “We can talk more in the morning.”

“My answer will still be the same in the morning,” Avon said, but his fingers had already strayed to the zip down the front of Blake’s shirt.  

“I know,” Blake said against Avon’s neck. His pulse was trembling. “Stay anyway. Please. For me, Avon.”

This time it was Avon’s turn to shudder. “I never said I was going to leave,” he reminded Blake. “But I certainly like being asked to stay. You should have tried it on the Liberator.”

“Stay,” Blake growled, pressing his cock against Avon’s thigh, rubbing against him. “Stay,” he told Avon again as he thrust into Avon’s slick, tight body on the bed Avon had bought for them to fuck in. “Stay. For me. Avon, stay. Stay––”

“Fuck,” Avon hissed. “Yes,” he gasped, orgasm clearly about to wash over him, “ _yes_. Anything, Blake. Anything you say.”

*

Blake woke the next morning to find Avon dressing in the dim illumination of the digital clock, the soft drag and swish of him tugging on his clothes the only sound in the room beyond the creak of the bed springs.

“Computer – lights on,” Blake said and watched Avon jump in the suddenly bright light. “Twenty-five per cent,” he said too late, his eyes screwed up against the illumination. He relaxed as the light dimmed and looked back at Avon, who had almost finished putting his clothes back on.

Avon looked good in the gloomy lighting, his hair darker and the crisp white of his shirt seeming to glow slightly like his teeth when he smiled.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Avon said as he adjusted his cufflinks.

“How thoughtful. Pity it failed,” Blake said, pulling more pillows from Avon’s side onto his so that he could support himself in a sitting position.

“I won’t bother next time, but you seemed tired.”

“Charming,” Blake said.

“Believe me, I had no complaints last night,” Avon said, smirking, “but I thought you were probably tired nonetheless.” He leant down to kiss Blake goodbye, with far less formality and a lot more tongue than he had kissed Blake goodbye the day before.

“You’re off, then, I take it?” Blake asked, as Avon drew back. Avon nodded. “What’s on the presidential plate today?”

“Meetings,” Avon said without much interest. “Followed by more meetings.”

“With?”

“Well, with people, generally,” Avon said. “One meeting will, I think, also be attend by a dog, but that is the exception.”

“I would never have guessed,” Blake said wryly.

“If you could have worked it out yourself, you shouldn’t have asked,” Avon said. “Actually, there is one meeting you could come along to if you’re planning on taking up the teleport project work––”

Blake shook his head.

He was tempted by the idea of attending an actual political gathering inside the palace – presumably once he was inside it would be more difficult to get rid of him, though that hadn’t helped much the day before – but he’d mulled over Avon’s suggestions last night after Avon had gone to sleep. Better not just to dismiss them out of hand – that was what Avon would expect him to do, and was less than he owed Avon. But Blake knew he hadn’t come back to Earth just to build Avon a teleport device.

“You’re not thinking of taking one of the ambassadorial positions?” Avon said, looking suddenly worried. “I didn’t think you would. _Earth_ has always been at the centre of all your plans. I thought it would be the teleport job, or that you’d refuse everything.” He sat down on the bed next to Blake’s legs, and leant into the hand that Blake brought up to his face. “You realise that if you go to Lindor, then we’ll hardly see each other, and of course if that’s what you want––”

“I’m not going to Lindor,” Blake said soothingly.

“Hardly a comfort. Albion is almost as far away,” Avon said. “And the less said about Horizon––”

“No, no, no. You were right the first time,” Blake said. “I have to stay on Earth. It’s what I’ve been working for all this time, and no – I don’t mean to take the archival job or sit around doing nothing, either.” Avon arched a curious eyebrow, and Blake said, “If there is, at any point, to be an election, you’ll need at least one credible opposition party to stand against you. I like to think I am a little more than credible.”

Avon started laughing, but it was warm rather than mocking. “Not a bad idea, given that you already criticise my ideas on a regular basis, and I already choose not to listen. Why not get paid for it?”

“If the people side with me, you may have to listen,” Blake told him seriously, “even before I’m officially in office. That, Avon, is democracy.”

“Yes, well, good luck,” Avon said, kissing Blake again and getting to his feet. “I’ll be back again at eight.”

“Have a nice day at work, dear,” Blake called after Avon wryly as the door closed behind him.


	2. Front Line

Membership of the Freedom Party had always ebbed and flowed. This was, unfortunately, for the worst possible reasons – namely that every so often large numbers of FP members would be wiped out in a Federation raid, and then the Party would have to re-recruit. However, since the Federation had itself been (mostly) wiped out about eight months ago, the Freedom Party now seemed to be doing quite well for itself. Membership was at an all-time high – but, as far as Blake could tell from the limited searches he’d done on the Party, none of those members were people he had known. He supposed the last of the people he’d worked with had been killed in the raid that had taken Bran Foster, a good man Blake now remembered with a sense of great loss.

He left the workmen removing Avon’s paintings from his flat, and went for a walk through the dome. There was no reason to think that any of the traditional meeting points were still be used – in fact, it seemed distinctly likely that they _weren’t_ if the people now running the Party had any sense – but people were sentimental, particularly about politics. They were swayed by their emotions – that was how you led them. The old places would have power. It was worth at least checking in. If that didn’t work, Blake thought he could announce his presence in public and see who came to him, but it would be better to have allies before he did that.

The Man’s Hope had been a popular Freedom Party haunt in Blake’s day. The beer had been terrible and the prices high, both of which had kept Federation soldiers and unsympathetic alphas away from what was already an undesirable location. The pub was dark and vaguely grim on the inside (and the outside, actually), but since the other major FP gathering space had been the sewers, the Hope had generally been seen as an upgrade.

It _was_ still open for business, Blake noted as he approached through the lower corridors. That was a very good sign. He had to step over a man sleeping in the doorway in order to enter – that was also a good sign, as this had traditionally been the position taken by the sentries Blake had posted to watch out for spies or troopers.

Feeling distinctly confident now, Blake approached the bar. He ordered a beer and, while it was being poured, glanced around. To his amusement he saw a picture of himself, taken (Blake assumed) from his wanted poster, tacked to the wall in what looked like a sort of shrine, surrounded by other pictures of Bran, Dev and Raina, Avalon, Le Grande, and the rest of the Liberator crew – minus Avon, who seemed to be mostly covered by Avalon’s head.

“Half a credit,” the barman said, putting the warm and probably undrinkable pint down on the bar top.

“Thank you,” Blake said, trying not to think regretfully of the perfectly chilled spirits he’d left back in his over-priced, over-large flat. “Listen, I wonder if you can help me. My name is––”

“Holy shit,” the barman said, looking up at his patron at last. “Roj Blake. You’re back. When did you get back?”

A slight hush fell over the rest of the pub, and a few people stopped what they were doing to incautiously turn around and look at the founder of their organisation.

Blake took a large swig of his beer, which tasted just as bad as he remembered. Still – it also tasted like freedom and like opportunity. He smiled, and because everyone was watching and listening said with great theatricality,

“So – you _have_ heard of me.”

*

While some of the Freedom Party were delighted that Blake had returned, others … were not. One of the least delighted was San Rigel – who seemed to be the Party’s current leader. He was young and, like many young men Blake had known, fired up about the injustices that had been perpetrated on his people. To his credit he seemed less upset by the idea that Blake was back and was likely to oust him from his leadership position in the Party, and more upset that if Blake won he would choose to lead the Party in peaceful protest against Avon, rather than in violent and bloody mayhem. But it was still a complication Blake didn’t need.

“Talk won’t change anything,” San told Blake in one of the back rooms of the Hope. There were seven of them clustered together, mostly other young people who made Blake (at 34) feel ancient. “Haven’t we proved that? Haven’t _you_ proved that?”

“That was a different administration,” Blake reminded him. “A _very_ different administration.”

“Kerr Avon didn’t get where he is by negotiating,” said a girl who Blake thought might be called Jyl. “He took control with superior firepower. He held the previous administration at gunpoint.”

“Yes, and that is what we are _trying_ to stop,” Blake said.

“You think Avon should be deposed, then, do you? I thought you said he wasn’t that bad when you got to know him.”

“He _isn’t_ that bad,” Blake said firmly. “He’s made _plenty_ of very good choices––” There was uproar over this, but Blake pressed on. “Obviously I don’t agree with everything that Avon’s done, or I wouldn’t be here, and you’re right that he’s done it without the consent of the people, and he’s done it with the help of some questionable people––”

“Questionable?” San said. “People who worked for Alta Morag are still in the justice system.”

Blake managed to hold himself still, rather than flinching. “As I said, Avon is not perfect.”

He wondered vaguely whether San had said that _particular_ name to see whether it would unsettle him. Possibly. Many of the people populating the lower echelons of Avon’s administration were the same people who had populated those echelons a year ago. It would have been very difficult for Avon to get rid of them all and still run a government that managed to get anything done, though from Blake’s searches the day before it had become clear that many of the most dangerous relics of the old regime had either fled, or been identified by (presumably) Orac early on and subsequently arrested. Morag herself was in a cell somewhere, which Blake tried not to think on with too much satisfaction. She was only one of many, though. There were people who had arguably done far worse who still had jobs, and yet San had chosen to mention Morag.

Other people would, though, if they saw it upset Blake to hear her name spoken. It was good practice now to become immune to these personal issues while he was in relatively friendly company. Blake glared round at them all.

“ _None of us_ are perfect,” he continued, “which is why it is vital that the decisions of our leaders are, to the best of their abilities, representative of the needs and desires of the people. Avon has expressed interest in democratic elections––” This was news to them, as Blake had known it would be, “––but until then we have to do something to make ourselves heard.”

“There’s a protest about the grading system gathering tomorrow at dawn outside Residence One,” another young woman said. Blake had missed her name completely in the rapid fire of introductions. “We’ve already gathered representatives from all the delta and gamma quadrants, as well as one or two betas and a few alphas.”

“Good,” Blake said, taking a flyer from her outstretched hand, and the girl flushed with pleasure. Perhaps, Blake thought, she’d been the one to pin up the pictures in the shrine. He smiled up at her. “I’ll join in, if you like. If it would be appropriate. I’d like to get out amongst the people again.”

“Of course! The more alphas we have the better.”

“How have you been gathering the attendees?”

“It doesn’t matter,” San said dismissively. “Protests don’t work. Nobody sees them, nobody remembers them. Nothing changes. _You_ never used them.”

“Things were very different when I was on Earth,” Blake said. “And as for after I left – I could hardly protest in outer space, now, could I?”

“I never thought I’d see the day Roj Blake would approve a leaflet campaign,” Jyl said, laughing, as the other girl shrank back.

“He’s gone soft because he doesn’t want to hurt his precious boyfriend,” San said to the others. “But what you don’t seem to realise, Blake, is that to us Avon’s just as much the establishment as Servalan ever was.”

“He represents _an_ establishment, certainly,” Blake said. “Someone has to––”

“Oh my god, he didn’t deny it,” Jyl said. “Avon _is_ his boyfriend. He’s sleeping with the actual president!”

“––but those representatives should be elected by the people,” Blake continued firmly, “accountable to the people, and yes, Jyl, Avon and I _are_ sleeping together.” This seemed to be so outrageous as to be unanswerable, so Blake pressed on. “I hope it makes you happy to know you were right. What would make _me_ happy is a way of making a positive difference on the lives of our fellow citizens without making them afraid to go outside. Now, I do have _one_ idea–”

“I disagree,” San said.

“You have no idea what it _is_ yet,” Blake snapped.

“Doesn’t matter – it’ll be something boring and pointless, but I’m not even talking about it. Or about you and our soon to be ex-president, though frankly that’s disgusting.”

“What are you objecting to then?” Blake said. “Surely not free elections.”

He’s expected this to get a laugh, but in fact San said (on his feet now), “Yeah, actually, so don’t talk down to me like I’m nothing, Roj Blake. Why are we electing anyone? Why should be there be a group of people who choose things for everyone else to abide by?”

“Because otherwise there would be absolute anarchy!”

“Good!” San said. “That’s what we want. Freedom, complete freedom – isn’t that what you named your Party for?”

“Oh shut up, San,” another man said, and for a moment Blake thought he had an ally until the speaker added, “Obviously Blake’s washed up, but there’s no need to go off the deep end.”

“I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think that a serious, benevolent government _can_ and should exist,” Blake said hotly, getting to his feet now as well. “I also don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to make statements without killing anyone. If any of you had––”

“Er, Mister Blake?” It was the barman from earlier, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. Interestingly he said Blake’s name as though it were a title, like Mister President. “You’ve got a visitor. It’s–– ”

A petite young woman with large eyes, a short bobbed haircut and what looked like a large gun strapped to her hip.

“Fighting your own people now the war’s over, Blake?” she asked, grinning at him.

“Avalon!” Blake laughed with delight and extracted himself from behind the table to take her hand. Someone behind him dropped a glass in surprise at hearing that name spoken here, and then swore.  “You picked up my signal.”

“No, I heard you shouting from three planets away,” she said, sitting down next to Jyl. “Isn’t it mad that Avon’s the president now? Hello,” she said to Jyl, “I’m Avalon.”

“Yes,” Jyl said, looking so starstruck it was clear even this word had been difficult to find and say.

They’d reacted to Blake like this at the beginning – becoming more aggressive as Blake had explained that actually he _didn’t_ want to assassinate Avon, and wasn’t here to ask them for their help in doing it. Blake thought they would probably come to dislike Avalon too, though she was significantly more charming and attractive than he was, so perhaps it would take longer. For now, though, her presence gave him credibility. It was comforting to have someone with him who had actually fought against the Federation in the same way he did, who came from that same background and thought the same way about organised resistance. They hadn’t had too long together aboard the Liberator before he’d delivered Avalon back to her group, but they knew of each other by reputation and the conversations they had had been enlightening and engaging. The reasons she had disagreed with him, when she _did_ disagree with him, were all sound and based on good principles.

“I remember Avon saying I was a fool for getting involved in politics,” Avalon continued. “Hello,” she said to the man on the other side, who squeaked slightly and moved away from her. She smiled, shook her head, and turned back to Blake again. “He made it sound like it wanting to help other people was guaranteed to result in someone kidnapping you and making a killer robot in your image. Now he’s making decisions on how we re-structure the union.”

“Mad doesn’t cover it,” Blake said wryly, leaning back to allow the barman to bring another round of beers to the table. “He has his reasons, but still – it’s insanity.” He sipped his second beer, which was (if possible) even worse than the first.

“I take it you have a plan to put wrong to right?” Avalon asked.

Blake grinned and held out his beer for her to chink her own glass against. “As usual, Avalon, you are absolutely correct.”

*

On the shuttle flight over from Epheron, Vila had advised Blake _not_ to appear on Speaker’s Corner. The chat show was one of the many that had sprung up following the downfall of the Federation and its oppressive data laws. Featuring a variety of guests giving their opinions on a variety of current affairs, Speaker’s Corner was inspired by popular entertainments in less restrictive systems, such as Teal and Vandor. Having been stranded on Epheron for the last eight months, Blake hadn’t heard of the show until Vila had informed him that the producers were panting to get an appearance from Blake himself once he returned to Earth. This had seemed to Blake a perfect opportunity to address the people in forums they understood, even at a time when he’d thought Avon was going to gift him the presidency and he would soon have the opportunity to address the people on an almost daily basis. Vila had nixed the Speaker’s Corner idea fairly quickly, though.

“Friday’s the Worlds Cup final,” he’d explained. “Speaker’s Corner gets rotten ratings anyway, but it’ll be hopeless with something good on opposite.”

It was a platform, though. Somewhere to talk about alternate ideas in public. Cheap, yes, undignified, perhaps, but the chat show was already being broadcast to an admittedly limited audience and had the potential to go far wider. It was a format people knew and understood how to react to, even if they were only starting to become used to thinking for themselves. In a short space of time, and possibly without realising it, Vila had also identified _the_ major problem with it – competition – as well as the major potential opportunity connected with that popular timeslot.

“Millions of people will be tuning in to watch the match,” Blake had explained to Avalon and the Freedom Party leaders in the Hope’s back room. “If we capture their attention at that point and redirect it _towards_ our platform––”

“Classic bait and switch,” Avalon had agreed. “It should be possible. The difficulty will be capturing and holding the viewer’s attention.”

“Leave that to me.”

“Rhetoric is all very well – I know you’re good – but we could do something a bit more formal as well. A ticker strip advising of technical difficulties at the match would be easy. The viewers should stand by for updates.”

“And if not, they miss vital sporting seconds. Good,” Blake had conceded, feeling a warm glow at the support of someone so completely in tune with his ideas. That _would_ work. Avalon seemed to think the plan would work too – her rebel cell would presumably contain the technicians needed to put this plan into operation, if the Freedom Party couldn’t provide someone. It had occurred to Blake the previous night, when he’d identified the bait-and-switch idea, that his own computer technician (then asleep next to him, snoring gently) might well be willing to help out, even though Blake was appearing on Speaker's Corner specifically to denounce Avon’s policies. Avon, Blake thought, might well think it was amusing to help ridicule his own government – he might also appreciate the chance to stretch himself in what had been his profession. In general, he also seemed to desperately want the chance to do things for Blake, which Blake found wrenchingly affecting, even as he found it infuriating in its current manifestation. But while knowing he had Avon’s support was a nice feeling, too, in a way, it made more sense to give the work to other idealists. Leave Avon to the business of running the universe – for now, at least.

“I thought you wanted people to like you,” San had said after Blake had finished outlining his plans to thoroughly dominate the Friday night viewing schedule. His voice had had an air almost of awe at how crazy the two great revolutionary heroes were. “This won’t make them like you.”

“Neither will blowing up their buildings,” Blake had snarled. He’d smoothed his temper down. “And you’re wrong actually. I don’t want them to like me – I want them to listen to me.”

In his ear, throughout the show, Blake could hear updates as to how many people had tuned in and were still tuning in. It _was_ in the millions and rising. _Millions_ of people had heard him denounce Avon’s government as being staffed by “people who had worked for Alta Morag and her kind”. Millions of people had heard him praising the demilitarisation of the Federation, and the lessening of the power of Space Command, but wondering when equivalent law enforcement to protect, rather than suppress, citizens would be in place. Millions of people had heard him ask when living conditions would improve for the state’s poorest citizens; when the state would start taking care of those citizens, rather than Taking Care of them. Millions of people had heard him ask whether drugs had truly been _removed_ from the water systems or whether they were simply there in lower qualities – millions of people had heard that Blake had himself gone drinking down in the delta levels earlier in the week, and had returned to his alpha-grade apartment feeling unusually docile. Blake asked when slavery was to be abolished, what would happen to political prisoners currently in exile, what Avon’s plans on education and defence and transportation were, when it would be possible for ordinary citizens to easily communicate with people off-world, and millions of people heard him ask.

“Would you say that you _dislike_ our president, then?” the host asked. He was an avuncular sort of man called Tol Wade – his teeth were very white, despite his age. They sparked as he grinned. Presumably Tol and the audience were amused because this question sounded like an understatement given the many, _many_ negative things that Blake had said about Avon in the past 20 minutes, although Blake laughed for the opposite reason.

“Actually I wouldn’t say that. No, I think he’s done a lot of good things – really. Very good. It’s down to him that this show even exists, and that I’m allowed to say the things I have today, in public. That’s an extraordinary achievement, and we shouldn’t play it down. But there’s a lot more to do, and I wouldn’t want him or anyone to think that we were finished. We’re not finished – we can _never_ be finished, we can never _be_ at an ideal state where we can say ‘that’s enough, we’re done’, but we’re not even at acceptable yet. Our poorest citizens are still cooped up in unsanitary and overpopulated flats, scarcely big enough to lie down in. Yet we haven’t started building outside the domes––”

“You think the president isn’t planning to build outside the domes?”

“I don’t know,” Blake said with an expansive shrug. “I don’t know because he hasn’t told us anything except what he wants us to hear. Obviously that’s politics, but we should be worried about it. None of us really know what his plans are, and we don’t know that he’s choosing to work on the same things that we would want him to work on, _because_ we don’t know.”

“Not even you?”

“Especially not me,” Blake said. “Why do you think I’m here, asking these questions?”

“Of course you worked with him on the Liberator, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” Blake said. He laughed again, rubbing his lower lip with a finger. “Ironically Avon used to accuse me of acting in a very similar way back then, keeping my decisions too close to my chest – but the Liberator wasn’t a democracy. The Terran Domes aren’t a democracy either, but they should be. This isn’t war any more. We can take the time to think and discuss and plan, together, what is best for everyone.”

“Fascinating,” Tol said. “The popular perception is very much that you were all highly dedicated to the cause of Freedom, and deeply devoted to each other as well as the fight. Blake’s Seven – have you heard that name?”

“Yes, I have,” Blake said with amusement. “I quite like it actually.”

“But you’ve said you and President Avon were rivals – bitter rivals?”

“No, no,” Blake said. “We may have had our disagreements, but we were friends. Though the Liberator certainly _wasn’t_ a utopian paradise where we all agreed with each other. If you’ve heard that, you can forget it.”

“And you’re still friends now? With President Avon?”

“Yes,” Blake said. “We’re still friends now. I can disagree with some of Avon’s policies without disliking him personally, and vice versa. He knows I’m appearing on this show tonight. He even gave me his blessing to say what I liked. No, we’re very good friends.”

“A little birdie told me you were rather more than that,” Tol said, smiling benignly, as though this question weren’t a massive invasion of privacy.

Blake felt his own smile becoming more fixed. Where had that information come from? It wasn’t a secret – neither he nor Avon had been particularly discrete, but neither had they advertised the relationship. It would have taken some digging, or someone (probably from the Freedom Party) specifically coming forward with the information. Even though he hadn’t made _use_ of Avon in the way that he’d feared on his first night back on Earth (he doubted Avon would have let him even if he had), Blake felt that his sex life _was_ being made to look seedy.

A little bird, eh?

Twenty-two million people were now watching.

“Did it, indeed?” Blake said lightly. “Yes, I suppose you could say that, though I don’t see how my relationship with Avon is relevant to whether or not slavery should be abolished, or the drugs fully removed from our water supply.”

“You don’t find it a conflict of interest that you’re criticising a man who, you admit, you are involved with?”

“No, I don’t,” Blake said, “and I don’t really see how it _can_ be. Perhaps if I were here supporting Avon then you might have grounds to question my judgement, but since I’ve suggested a number of ways he and his government could stand to improve, I think it’s likely I’m being objective, don’t you?”

“I’m not questioning your judgement,” Tol said soothingly, “but the question has to be asked. Under the circumstances. The people have a right to know – isn’t that what you’ve said all along?”

“About public affairs, certainly,” Blake said. “But I do also believe that all citizens still have a _right_ to privacy, unless there’s a legitimate and lawful reason for breeching that privacy. I don’t mind talking about my personal relationship with Avon, if that’s what you’re interested in, but I’m afraid I do consider it of less galactic importance than whether or not all of our citizens have food, and water without pacification drugs in it, and space to live in, facilities to support them, a police force to protect rather than oppress them. So I’d prefer to talk about any of those issues, if it’s all the same to you, _rather_ than Avon.”

“Of course,” Tol said. “That’s perfectly understandable. Let’s talk about your recent visit to the delta levels, then, Roj – why _were_ you there?”

*

“ _Fuck_ ,” Blake swore as the regular newscasts downloaded onto his terminal the next morning. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Something wrong?” Avon asked, emerging from the bathroom, wrapped in a robe and towelling his hair dry.

“ _Yes_ ,” Blake said, even more loudly than before, though he’d been attempting for a more reasonable tone. He rubbed his eyes, trying to pull himself together, and angled the screen towards Avon as he approached so that Avon could read it. “Look at how they reported the entire show. _Everything_ I said...”

“President’s Rebellious Lover,” Avon said, reading the headline in a flat voice that somehow made it sound even more ludicrous. He raised an eyebrow at Blake, who waved tiredly at him to continue. “Terran President Kerr Avon has made many controversial choices since he seized power six months ago following the Short War. Critics have called his attempts to withdraw troops from our troubled borders ‘a serious mistake’ – well, that’s rather harsh – but surely his biggest mistake to date has been shacking up with famous rebel leader Roj Blake. Aside from his convictions for child abuse, which new data shows are likely to have been falsified by the previous administration, Blake has other qualities that make him ill-suited as a romantic partner for our president – the most glaring of which is a complete lack of loyalty. Yesterday the only moderately handsome Blake appeared on chat show Speaker’s Corner––”

“All of the others are the same,” Blake said, “or almost the same. Channel 55 calls me scruffy looking, rather than moderately handsome, and 104 includes one line about how perhaps there _might be_ something in the drugged water thing I mentioned––”

“It’s an outrage,” Avon said, his voice tightly controlled.

“It is!” Blake agreed. “A free society obviously cannot exist if the state is drugging its people into submission. What are you doing about it?”

“Actually I meant the fact that they called you only moderately handsome, though it was nice of them to say you probably weren’t a paedophile.”

“For fuck’s sake, Avon,” Blake protested.

Perhaps, he thought grimly, he should break up with Avon. If Avon was drugging citizens (not that Blake thought that Avon was responsible for it – he probably didn’t even know about it until he'd seen the show) and unwilling to take Blake’s advice, and if sleeping with him was going to so thoroughly undermine Blake’s own credibility that nobody else would take his advice either, then perhaps the two of them would be better apart. But that would feel a lot like admitting defeat now. Blake believed what he had said the day before about there being no possible conflict in his feelings for Avon and his feelings about the issues of government, and there was no way he was going to do something he thought was _wrong_ just because people didn’t believe the truth.

And it did seem _wrong_ to break up with Avon. It was almost physically painful to think about the idea of not to being able to see him on a daily basis, talk to him, laugh with him, and lick him. Even though Avon was being incredibly frustrating right now, he was also more than usually wonderful. What Avon had done with freedom of information _was_ extraordinary. And just today the same newsfeeds that had dismissed everything Blake had said on Speaker’s Corner had announced that shuttles were already on the way back from Ursa Minor, Exbar, Cygnus Alpha and several other penal colonies. Ushton and Inga and hundreds of other political prisoners were coming home, and Avon must have made this decision on his own because, to be this far advanced, the decision would have had to have been made weeks ago. If Avon hadn’t been in the shower when Blake had read this, and if he hadn’t checked to see what had been said about his own public appearance, Blake suspected he would be currently trying to make Avon late for work by sucking him off. He’d had nightmares regularly on the Liberator and on Epheron, but the sound of Avon’s breathing next to him was apparently allowing Blake to sleep easily. He knew he couldn’t bear more than a few days apart without going stir crazy. Eight months had been more than enough. 

“The water isn’t drugged,” Avon said with less hilarity, and Blake looked up at him again. “It was, to begin with,” Avon conceded. “We thought it would be too much of a shock to people to come off them immediately, there could have been riots I couldn’t have controlled – I didn’t want anyone to get unnecessarily hurt. But they’re all gone from the water supply, now. You have my personal guarantee.”

“We ran tests,” Blake told him. He watched Avon’s face carefully as he did so – it was incredibly important than Avon didn’t know. “Avalon’s people found traces of chlordiazepoxide in the beer being served at the Hope, and in the tap water being served with meals at the cafe a few doors along. The drugs _are_ still there.”

Avon’s face had gone very still, except for his eyelashes which flickered once and then again. “Residual traces on the glassware, perhaps,” he said, looking at Blake as though he hoped it was true. He didn’t know then – Blake relaxed. “Your friends at that pub haven’t washed their tumblers for more than a month,” Avon continued. “Or – no, the beer would have been made earlier in the year with contaminated water. That would explain it.”

“And the tap water at the cafe?”

Avon shut his eyes for a moment, and opened them again. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Blake spread his hands. “Would you have listened? You said you didn’t want me telling you what to do.”

“This _isn’t_ a policy issue,” Avon snapped. “Would you have been silent if you’d seen troopers beating people in the streets on my orders?”

It was a justified criticism, and Blake felt suddenly disgusted with himself. He hadn’t told Avon because _Avon had said he didn’t want to listen –_ what a ridiculous thing to think, let alone _say_ out loud to Avon. Avon not wanting to listen had _never_ stopped Blake telling him what he needed to know before. He was still behaving petulantly. Perhaps he’d even wanted to have something exciting to say in front of millions of people, live on the vizzies.

Avon was pulling on his clothes now, rapidly, as though he was too upset with Blake or the situation to care particularly how he looked. It was curiously heart-wrenching. Blake shut off the computer and stood, pulling the half-dressed Avon into his arms.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. I should have told you, even if I thought you wouldn’t listen, and I do think you would have listened.” 

Avon allowed himself to smile slightly at that, and then he allowed Blake to kiss him, responding with increasing passion to match Blake’s increasingly deep exploration of his mouth, as though Avon too felt how easily this conversation could have gone wrong and was grateful that it hadn’t, and felt as though Blake was his salvation, just as Blake sometimes thought Avon was his, and the only thing that was definitely good in the universe, _despite_ how ironic that was.

“Later,” Avon said, pushing Blake back before they got any further. “I have some people to fire and then arrest.”

“All right, I’ll come with you,” Blake said. “You need back up,” he explained at Avon’s curious look.

“Nice try,” Avon said, with another upwards flicker of his mouth.

Blake heaved an exaggerated sigh and sat back at the computer desk. Even after everything that had happened Avon _still_ thought he didn’t need any help – there was no way Blake wouldn’t have run his own tests, even if he _had_ trusted all of his advisors, which Avon demonstrably didn’t. What _would_ it take to convince him?

The computer screen came back online, and Blake began closing the numerous windows that were still showing reports of his interview. None of them had managed to find a picture of him and Avon together in a forbidden tryst, which Blake supposed was a relief. That would have looked even worse. Instead the stories were just illustrated with Blake lounging in his chair on Speaker’s Corner (looking _all right,_ though he supposed he could do with a haircut), and in most cases the same shot of Avon looking furtive while leaving Blake’s apartment building. From his clothing, it looked like the picture had been taken only the day before.

“We are doing something about just over half of the things that you mentioned,” Avon said as Blake closed the final news story.

“Really? What?” Blake said, looking up again with interest. “Obviously I read about the political prisoners this morning––”

Avon held a finger to his lips and shook his head. Blake rolled his eyes. Now it seemed as though they’d moved past dangerous accusations of institutional corruption, and into a place where Avon thought it would be acceptable to _taunt_ Blake about how little control and insight he had into what was happening inside the palace.

“I suppose I should be grateful you watched the show at all,” Blake grumbled.

“Oh yes,” Avon said. “I watched all of it. I thought you came across very well, actually.”

“Did you?” Blake said, touched despite himself.

“Mm,” Avon said, grinning. “Very much like someone I would want to sleep with… if only you weren’t so disloyal.”

“Oh fuck off, Avon,” Blake said, twisting away from him and pointedly returning to using the computer console.

He felt Avon press a kiss to the top of his head and, as the door slide shut, an idea hit him. He stood up and followed the route Avon had taken out of the apartment building, choosing the stairs instead of the lift as there was only one and Avon had already taken it. He was slightly out of breath when he reached the bottom after four floors of steps, but that didn’t matter as Avon hadn’t managed to get into his car yet.

As Blake had expected, today there was more than one photographer outside – a lot more. The building would have been identified from the single shot that had been circulated amongst the press, and everyone else would have done their homework this time. Avon turned as Blake emerged from the atrium. He looked charmingly confused. Perhaps he thought Blake was going to dive into the car in an attempt to smuggle himself into the palace, but that was clearly a bad idea. The large man who had shown Blake out of the palace on his first day on Earth was standing by the door of the car, waiting to close it after Avon was inside. Blake suspected that if anyone (even the man Avon had demonstrably come to _visit)_ tried to follow the president into the car, the large man would close the door on his _neck_ , which was fairly undesirable.

“Blake?” Avon said. “Is something––?”

Blake pulled him into a kiss, one just as passionate and just as deep as the kiss they’d just shared inside the flat. Avon’s body jerked as though he were thinking about tugging himself away, and then his fingers clenched in the muscles of Blake’s arms and his tongue pushed into Blake’s mouth. People were undoubtedly photographing the scene – that was the whole point. The relationship wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, and Blake wasn’t going to be forced to abandon it.

Blake considered saying something like “Thank you for investigating the contaminated water issue, dear” as they broke apart, but that _would_ look distinctly like he’d traded sex for Avon’s cooperation. Besides – there was something else he could do with that one.

So instead he just waved at the reporters, and left Avon to get back into his car, looking rather dazed.

*

“Welcome back, Roj Blake.”

Blake smiled back broadly and warmly – careful to look like the kind of man who could be trusted, the kind of man who could take a joke at his own expense, the kind of man you wanted to be your friend or, better, the kind of man you felt was _already_ your friend, willing and able to look out for your interests in the wider sphere of government.

“Thank you, Tol, I’m very pleased to be here.”

Opinion about Blake returning to the show had been extremely divided within the Freedom Party. There was a large and vocal contingent, led by San of course, who felt that Blake had embarrassed the Party enough by daring to date the opposition and admitting this in public, and that returning to the scene of the crime would make matters worse (Blake carefully did not mention that he thought it likely that San or someone on his side had leaked that information to Speaker’s Corner – that sort of accusation never ended well). Even Avalon, who had been Blake’s strongest supporter thus far, was unconvinced that it was worth their time, if they couldn’t pull the same sort of stunt as with the Worlds Cup. But Blake was adamant that they had to go back.

“We can build up a following,” he’d assured the others gathered round the pub table. “People will begin to tune in _in order_ to see us, rather than accidentally. And I did _tell_ you about what happened with the water––”

Avon had suggested he might like to wear something a little different so at least the charge of ‘scruffy looking’ wouldn’t be levelled at him again, but Blake had been _just_ as adamant that he wouldn’t bow to peer pressure here as he had been about his relationship with Avon. The shirt he was wearing today was clean – that was enough. Avon had held up his hands in submission and gone back to his book, muttering something about how he wasn’t sure how Blake ever expected to succeed in politics if he didn’t look the part.

“I must admit I’m surprised you were willing to come back after the way the media treated you last time,” Tol continued.

Blake laughed – warm, friendly, able to take a joke. “I’m used to being the subject of public speculation. At least what they said about me this time was true.”

Tol laughed with him. “It does seem so. Some very revealing pictures of you two have been published recently––”

“ _Have_ there?” Blake said with what he hoped wasn’t blatant insincerity. A large, blown-up shot of him kissing Avon outside his apartment appeared on the screen behind Blake. It was overlaid with another shot of Blake and Avon in a restaurant Blake had suggested they visit together; and then another photograph of Avon at the opera leaning in to talk to Blake while he fiddled with his programme.

“You’ve scarcely been out of the news since we spoke last week,” Tol said, and Blake tried not to look too pleased. This was exactly the effect he’d been aiming at. Whatever the news channels had _believed_ they were doing by publishing picture after picture of Blake and Avon together, what they’d _actually_ done was remind people repeatedly that Blake was back on Earth, and that he’d been rude about Avon’s government in a viz-programme that could be downloaded and watched if anyone had a mind to do it.

“They’ll get bored with it sooner or later,” Blake said, though personally he felt it was unlikely to be soon. “I’m not going to change my behaviour, whatever happens, either towards Avon or towards this show. In fact, if you’ll have me back, Tol, I’d love to become a reoccurring guest––”

“Oh, of course. How wonderful.”                                                                                                                         

“It’s very clear to me already what kind of power this show has. I assume you saw what happened after the last show in regards to the water?”

“I did,” Tol said. “I expect everyone watching here tonight saw the very public arrests of five of our highest ranked civil servants––”

“Six,” Blake said through another smile.

“I stand corrected. Six.”

“The last one wasn’t quite so public, but happened nonetheless.” Something for the newshounds to investigate, keeping their interest. Blake wasn’t sure that there was a sixth arrest, but he thought it very likely that more people had been involved than Avon had advertised, and that _something_ would be found.

“And _that_ series of arrests,” Blake continued, “and the fact that the water in this decanter,” he lifted the bottle of water that had been sitting on the table between them, “is safe to drink, as is the water in everyone else’s home tonight, is _entirely_ down to this programme. Not just to me appearing on here and talking about the problem, but because people watching at home took me seriously, and they complained, and it was _that_ body of public support that was impossible to resist. Avon _had_ to take it seriously, and he did.”

This was an outright lie, although apparently the palace staff had received a _few_ pieces of correspondence on the subject. Again, Blake was fairly sure that it would be difficult to prove that it _hadn’t_ happened the way that he’d suggested. Speaker’s Corner had certainly been the catalyst for change in some way, and it could be used more effectively in future if the people watching believed their participation _could_ make a difference.

“Extraordinary,” Tol said. “What a wonderful illustration of democracy in action.”

“Isn’t it just?” Blake said.

“But I’m getting distracted talking about the past! There’s still so much we have to do in the future, and we have some more guests tonight who are keen to talk to us about that future. Our other guests on the show tonight are friends of yours, aren’t they, Roj?”

“Yes,” Blake said. “Not the same sort of friends as Avon, obviously––” General laughter at that, as expected. “For a start these two are on my side.” More laughter.

“Shall we get them out here?”

Blake indicated that he should do, and two extra chairs were produced for Avalon and for a friend of Blake’s who had been off on Auron for the last few months, becoming reacquainted with her people, but who was now back on Earth and keen to see positive change taking place.

The studio audience, which seemed larger than it had the first time Blake had appeared on Speaker’s Corner, clapped appreciatively as Avalon sat on one side of Blake and Cally on the other.

“Thank you so much for coming on the show,” Tol said. “I must say, I have been a huge fan of your work – of both your work – for a long time.”

“Thank you. But really, it’s still just beginning,” Cally said.

“I completely agree,” Avalon said. “Before this point, we were just fighting for the basic right of survival. Our enemies were dressed in Federation uniforms, and it was easy to see who you were fighting and why. Now things are much more difficult, but it’s even more important that we get it right.” 

She’d agreed to make a personal appearance more, Blake thought, to stop him bothering her about it, than because she thought it was a particularly brilliant idea – but he was convinced that, just as her appearance at the pub had given him credibility and distracted people from his relationship, if she appeared on Speaker’s Corner with him it would keep the conversation focused on what was important. Cally, meanwhile, had actually returned to Earth _because_ she’d seen Blake’s previous appearance (another good result to add to an ever increasing list of good results), and so was much more inclined to agree.

“I spoke about a lot of things that I thought could change the last time I was here,” Blake explained after the initial introductions about what each had been doing recently were over, “but none of them in a lot of detail. Cally and Avalon are here to help me discuss what we think is the biggest problem in today’s society.”

“Which is?” Tol prompted helpfully.

“The grading system,” Cally said. “Blake asked me to accompany him here today because my planet, Auron, has no such system in place.”

“You see, it’s not a dream to say we can exist without it,” Blake said, leaning forwards towards the chat-show host slightly. “Cally’s people are _proof_ of that. They live equally together, with each member of society contributing equally to the decision making process that governs the others.”

“I’ve seen similar societies in my travels,” Avalon said, “though admittedly none that seem as utopian to me as the Auronar.”

“Oh, we aren’t a utopia,” Cally said, “I would never say that – but on this, I believe we are ahead of your people. I could see the effect the grading system has on Earth humans even on board the microcosm world of Liberator.”

“I would agree, completely,” Blake said. “Aboard the Liberator we had Cally, and then we had three alphas – myself, Jenna Stannis, and of course Kerr Avon – a gamma – Olag Gan – and a delta – Vila Restal. Now, Vila is a particularly interesting person to talk about in this context, as I don’t think Avon, Jenna or I would contest the fact that Vila is at least as intelligent as any of us. And yet he never put himself forward if he could help it. He certainly never tried to assume a leadership position aboard the Liberator, even though I’m certain he was capable of it.”

“There aren’t any deltas in my cell at all,” Avalon said.

“Really? I didn’t know that,” Blake said, genuinely surprised. “We had trouble recruiting them five years ago back on Earth, but that was because none of the leaders were delta. We found it difficult to get anyone to trust us.”

“That’s just as true today as it was then,” Avalon said. “The other thing, of course, is that even though deltas have the most reason to be dissatisfied with their lot, they’re kept too busy to be able to do anything about it. Did you know the typical delta workshift is a twelve-hour day?”

“That I did know,” Blake said grimly.

“The drugs were stronger, too, in the delta quadrants than in the alpha quadrants, weren’t they?” Cally said.

“Manual labour doesn’t require the same high-level brain function,” Blake agreed, “and that is all deltas were deemed to be fit for.”

“They also don’t have the education that we have, that knowledge of other worlds like Cally’s that are different,” Avalon continued. “If they do aspire for something better, then it’s what the alphas, betas, or gammas have. They aren’t trained to lead; they are trained to be led. That’s why even the deltas that we have in the rebellion, like Vila, aren’t leaders, even if they have the capability.”

“I should say that I don’t believe Vila would want to lead,” Cally said with a smile – going off script slightly. “He would think it far too much like hard work.”

Blake considered whether he could kick her off camera and concluded it was too great a risk if he didn’t want the headlines tomorrow to read _President’s Boyfriend Beats Helpless Woman._

“But none of us thought that Avon was really leadership material, either,” he said, rescuing the situation, bringing them back on track. “Cally – on the Liberator did you have any idea Avon wanted anything like this? No,” he answered for her, in case she again wanted to be more charitable than was politic, “none of us did, _none_ of us, and – look at him now.”

“Unfortunately we have to,” Avalon said. “Daily, since he’s already started printing credit notes with his face on them.” 

“Vila is arguably in exactly the same position,” Blake continued. They could talk about Avon’s choices another time – that _wasn’t_ the issue, and all three of them knew it. “He’s never had the opportunity to lead, and why should he? I expect there were always alphas around who thought they could do it a hell of lot better than he could. I should know – I’m one of them, of course, but does that mean that Vila _couldn’t_ have led the Liberator crew?” He shrugged expansively. “I don’t know. It’s too late now, but he could still be a leading figure in Avon’s government. And that’s the important point – he could be, but he isn’t. What is he?”

“A tax collector,” Cally said with some distaste.

“Go where you’re told,” Blake explained to Tol and the audience. “Speak to the people you’re told to speak to, request a set sum of money from those people, and if they can’t pay – threaten them with somebody less polite. It’s quite simple – a menial job, by any other name. _That_ is all that Vila Restal is good for – at least, according to our government.”

“According … to President Avon?” Tol paraphrased.

“Yes,” Blake said, feeling a slight sense of unease about agreeing to this, but pushing on. Avon _was_ the figurehead of his government, and had presumably given Vila the job in question. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”

*

It had gone well. Blake knew it had gone well because when the three of them tried to leave there was already a large crowd gathered outside the studio, and because once Avalon’s men had pushed him into a car behind Cally a large number of messages began flooding onto his datapad. People from the forgotten groups who wanted to speak to him; people who thought he could make a difference; people who thought he was a lunatic and ought to be quiet. From the pinging of Avalon and Cally’s pads, it was clear they were getting similar messages. Avalon had looked up at Blake as the car turned down the darkened streets, and shrugged, amused and pleased, rather than angry, at how right he had been. Blake had grinned back at her.

After the case study that was Vila’s career, Avalon had laid out her plans for the abolition of grading – what they would need to do, what they would need to consider: not just the basic practicalities, but ensuring that people _were_ able to rise out of the grades they’d been born into, through better access to education and opportunities. Slavery, of course, had to be immediately abolished, though neither Avalon nor Blake thought this issue would appeal to their audience, since slavery was not generally practiced on Earth and it would, if people thought about it at all, be seen mostly as someone else’s problem. Cally had talked further about the systems the Auronar used. She’d also, rather cleverly Blake thought, discussed the many advantages an alliance with Auron would bring for the Terran Domes – an alliance that would not be possible if Earth and its colonies were still so far away from an idea of equality. Cally, like Blake, gave Avon the credit for sending her to speak with her people, but made it clear that there was nothing Avon could do, except completely redesigning the social strata he lived in, that would make an alliance with Auron a possibility. The Auronar would accept no less than a free and equal state – which was, Blake had pointed out, no less than the people of Earth deserved anyway.

Blake expected the newsfeeds would still report something along the lines of _President’s Friends Shoot Him a Second Time,_ but he thought that perhaps some of them wouldn’t. Not all the newsfeeds would be run by alphas – deltas had their own programming (which was, in and of itself, an embarrassment in this supposedly free day and age, as there shouldn’t be a need for them to have their own programmes), which alphas wouldn’t dirty themselves with. Besides, today Blake had called for the system to be shaken up in a way that would undoubtedly strip alphas of some of the privileges they enjoyed. Avalon had been quite clear about that at a few points, as had Blake himself. There wasn’t enough money to go around to ensure that everyone could live like alphas – if they wanted to make real changes then some people would demonstrably _have_ to have less, so that others could have a great deal more. That was the kind of thing he expected alpha reporters _would_ be interested in.

Avon wasn’t at Blake’s apartment when Blake let himself back it. That made sense (Avon wouldn’t necessarily want to sit around in a set of rooms Blake had stripped of all interest and comfort), but was still disappointing. Avon generally called round a few hours before this or, if he wasn’t going to come round at all, he said so in advance. That had only happened on two occasions since Blake had returned to Earth – a state dinner Avon hadn’t wanted Blake to attend, and some sort of viz-premiere that Avon hadn’t wanted to attend either but couldn’t get out of.

They’d talked about what time Blake would get home tonight in the morning before Avon had left for the palace. He hadn’t _said_ he wasn’t coming. And he did know when Blake would be available.

Blake pulled off his shirt, and hurled it in the direction of his bedroom. He stretched. The talk show hadn’t been hard work in the same way that hitting Control had been hard work, or climbing the sand dunes to reach Travis on Exbar, but he’d been tense for the entirety of the one-hour programme. His limbs felt stiff now, and he could feel the resulting adrenalin crash now he’d escaped.

“Computer – call President Kerr Avon, access channel 543.” This was Avon’s personal line. Theoretically Orac would be able to verify that it was Blake calling, both from the IP address he was calling from and from an initial voice print, and would connect him to directly to Avon or take a message in the unlikely event that Avon was busy at ten o’clock at night.

As usual, Blake’s computer took some time to think about this instruction before it could provide Blake with a response. “Access denied,” it said eventually.

“Orac, can I _please_ speak to Avon?” Blake said, choosing to try and communicate with the more intelligent computer involved in the transaction.

“Access denied,” the computer said again, still in its own voice, rather than Orac’s.

 _Strange,_ Blake thought. Avon must have changed the access channel – perhaps some overeager reporter had stumbled on it, and had convinced Orac to let them speak to the man of destiny. Not very likely, but possible.

Rather than try and guess what the new channel was, Blake abandoned the computer for the moment and fetched a scotch from the cabinet. He went back to his room and, leaving the whisky on the floor, pulled off the rest of his clothes in the expectation that Avon would either arrive, or he wouldn’t and Blake would sleep – or at least, he would try to. He felt drained, rather than tired. He wanted to slump into Avon, who would either wake him up properly or talk nonsense with him until Blake felt able to relax and sleep.

For something to do, he put on Avon’s afternoon broadcast, which he’d already watched earlier in the day. The rhythms of Avon’s speech were soothing, even as he was talking about nothing at all really. Blake let his eyelids flicker shut under the sound of it.

“Incoming viz call from Vila Restal,” the computer said from the living room.

“Vila?” Blake said. “Er, wait, a minute. I’ll be there in a second.”

It was in his mind to say something ridiculous like, _Are you sure it’s not Avon?_ But it clearly wasn’t Avon _._ Casting around for something to wear, Blake decided on Avon’s robe, which had been hanging over the back of the door. It smelled very comfortingly of its owner. He pulled it on and belted it as he returned to the living room.

“All right, put him on.”

He was smiling as Vila’s face filled the screen (not Avon, but good to have someone to talk to), but Vila definitely _wasn’t._ He looked angrier than Blake had ever seen him before.

“What’s the matter?” Blake said, though he did actually have quite a good idea about why Vila might be angry, now it was clear that Vila was angry. He just hoped he was wrong.

“What’s the matter?” Vila repeated. “What’s the matter, he says. I was actually happy. I know! Me, happy. I didn’t think I would ever _be_ happy, but I was. I had a girlfriend, I had a good job, a nice flat, nobody was shooting at me––”

“Surely you have all those things now, though,” Blake said. “Don’t you?” He took a seat on the sofa – clearly this wasn’t going to be a quick, easy conversation before bed. “The only thing that might have changed since this evening is that perhaps, I don’t know, you’ve been offered an even better job––”

“Fifty people have already been round tonight,” Vila said. “Fifty. Already. And they _all_ think I’m the messiah––!”

“You get used to it,” Blake began with a laugh.

“It’s not funny!” Vila said. “Sherey left for her mother’s after the first ten.”

“But she’s coming back.”

“I don’t know!” Vila said. “My girlfriend’s left, Blake, and I don’t know whether she’s coming back. Do you see why this isn’t funny? Do you see that?”

“Yes, I do see that,” Blake said, definitely not laughing now, “and I really am _very_ sorry, Vila. I promise - I had no idea any of this would happen.”

 _Stupid,_ he chastised himself. How difficult would it have been to call Vila in advance and let him know what was going to happen? Obviously none of them could have predicted the show would be so successful this time – nothing had happened after the last show at all – and Blake had no idea how everyone had found Vila’s address, but still – he should have said something. It had been thoughtless not to.

“I’ve stopped answering the door. I can’t take it any more. I think I’ll have to move, I do. I’ll have to move. Because you know what they do with messiahs, don’t you, Blake? Flowers and laurel wreathes one minute, and then you’re first against the wall when the government gets its act together. People don’t like messiah, powerful people like messiahs even less, and they’re the ones who can really do something about not liking someone. Permanently.”

“Vila,” Blake said firmly, “ _Avon_ is in power. Avon is not going to have you killed. He’ll probably just promote you.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Vila grumbled, though he did seem to be coming down from the peak of rage and fear that had caused him to ring Blake in the first place. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed; it just wasn’t as simple as the problems Vila had been dealing with in Blake’s absence. 

“Have you spoken to him about all this?” Blake asked patiently. Avon would surely be able to reassure Vila on this point. He might even be able to do something to make Vila’s re-location easier.

“Er,” Vila said, looking suddenly shifty, “no. Why would I? He’s very busy, you know, and very angry––”

“He’s angry and you know he’s angry, but you _haven’t_ spoken to him,” Blake said. “You just guessed, did you?”

Vila winced. For a thief he wasn’t very good at lying. Blake had just been making a suggestion to help Vila feel more at ease, but now it was clear there was something he _should_ know about Avon, but didn’t. He already knew Avon was angry, presumably with him, so it was more than that.

“Can you tell me what he said, please?” Blake said, pretending to be calm.

“I haven’t spoken to him,” Vila said, “and if I had, it wouldn’t be very nice for me to pass on what he said about you, would it? Then he probably _would_ kill me.”

“Vila – tell me what he said,” Blake demanded. “ _Vila––”_

Vila paused in the action of turning off the screen, and sat back. He sighed. “He’s not there, is he?”

“No, he hasn’t come round tonight,” Blake said, dismissing this part of the conversation as unimportant, and pressing on to the interesting portion that contained information he _didn’t_ already know. “But he’s talked to you?”

“He called me part way through the show – and very lucky he did, actually, or I wouldn’t know why any of these people were trying to get into my house. Did I tell you one of them had some sort of grappling hook? Just climbed the wall and came in through the window. I tell you, he scared the life out of me.”

“I said I was sorry,” Blake said. “Please, can we just _focus_ on Avon. He called you, and you discussed the show, which had made him angry. Then what?”

“He wasn’t angry,” Vila said apologetically.

Blake raised an eyebrow. He was definitely losing track of this conversation. “You said he _was_ angry.”

“No, that’s what he said,” Vila said. “He also talked about murdering you and burying the body somewhere no one would find it, but I didn’t believe that either. For a start, everyone would guess he was behind it––”

“ _Vila,”_ Blake said warningly.

“He was upset,” Vila said.

“What? Why?” Blake said, feeling the pit drop out of his stomach.

“Well, you did say some pretty awful things about him in front of millions of people. That probably had something to do with it.”

“I said awful things about him _last_ time,” Blake said. He corrected himself – “Not that I think that’s much of a defence, but he _genuinely_ didn’t mind last time. He thought it was funny _._ I thought he’d find _this_ funny.” Vila didn’t say anything, and Blake pressed on. “Listen, do you know if he’s changed his private access channel? I tried to get through to him earlier, but there was a problem with the line. The one I have is 543 – is that the one that you have?”

“Blake,” Vila said, “I don’t think he wants to speak you. At all. For a long time.”

“He said that?” Blake said. Avon had only become president in order to please Blake. There was no way that he would choose his career over Blake. It was absolutely impossible. Blake shook his head. “That can’t be right.”

Vila was looking at him with an expression of great pity and regret. “Sorry,” he said, and hung up.


	3. Battle Damage Report

Blake spent the night awake. He tried to get through to Orac again using the normal channel, in case there _had_ been a mistake. Then he wrote a short programme (Avon was the genius, but Blake had worked in engineering for a decade and had some idea of how a computer operated) to ping every access channel from 0 up to 500 in case there had been a different sort of mistake and Avon had changed the channel without telling him. He attempted to ring Vila back, but Vila had either locked him out or shut down the whole system to stop strangers trying to speak to him, and Cally had turned her comms off for the night.

Avalon _did_ answer, but given that she neither knew nor liked Avon she wasn’t very sympathetic.

“He’s just having a tantrum – trying to make you think his emotional pain is more important than an accountable government and the rights of our citizens. Tomorrow, when he needs you to tell him how brilliant he is, he’ll either drop round, pretending nothing has happened--”

“Or?” Blake said.

“He won’t,” Avalon said. “Which might be for the best. He _is_ a dictator, Blake, whether you like it or not. Get some sleep – we’ve got a tour of Delta 4 tomorrow, remember?”

“Right,” Blake said. “Thank you. Good talk.”

He tried to sleep while his programme ran, but his brain was busy running through all the things he’d said on Speaker’s Corner. Avalon was right – everything he’d said had been justified by the circumstances, but Vila was also right – he had said several harsh things about Avon, only some of which had been factually accurate. But how _could_ he have known Avon would take offense at these _specific_ items of propaganda? And Avon had, after all, started it by refusing to to tell Blake what he was doing. And Blake had been _right_ to do what he could, for the people, whatever it took. There was no conflict between his feelings for Avon and his principles. There was no _possible_ conflict, and how would it look if he backed off now because there were consequences of maintaining his position? It would look bad. It would _be_ disastrous.

But even so.

After a while he got up, and began pulling the computer apart (it had reached 432 and hadn’t yet found a match, so it probably wasn’t going to). It wasn’t the right time to do it – he was tired and he didn’t have the right parts, really, to make an interstellar transceiver properly, but it was something to do. And he really wanted to speak to Jenna, if he couldn’t speak to Avon.

He still had his broken teleport bracelet with him, a useless souvenir that he’d never been able to fix with the technology available on Epheron. Ruthlessly, Blake dismantled it now and pushed components he and Avon had named together (sonic-transceiver, light-distorter, vox) into his dismantled Terran computer. He half expected the whole thing to explode or at least short out when he flicked it back on, but the computer merely hummed to itself and then said,

“State your requirements.”

“Contact Admiral Jenna Stannis aboard the flagship Liberator,” Blake said, again – expecting the computer to deny him. But instead it flickered for a moment, the light became orange rather than green, and then Zen’s deep, familiar voice said,

“Jenna Stannis is in her cabin. This is her designated rest period. She desired only to be disturbed due to urgent contact. Does your enquiry fit within these perimeters, Roj Blake?”

As had often been the case, Blake thought he heard some element of human expression in Zen’s neutral computer voice. In this instance it sounded as though Zen were gently chiding him for barging into its circuits and trying to talk about his problems to Jenna in what was the middle of the night, even on board a spaceship.

“No,” Blake said. “Can you tell her I called? Ask her to call me later – when she has time, of course,” he said with amused and pointed courtesy.

“Confirmed.”

“It’s good to talk to you again, Zen,” Blake said with a smile, meaning it. Zen’s lights flickered again, but (politically) it chose not to reply. The green lights of Blake’s own computer returned.

“Transmission ended,” it said. “Do you have further requirements?”

“Yes,” Blake said tiredly, “but nothing that you can help me with. Computer off.”

*

The tour of Delta quadrant 4 was both interesting and horrifyingly familiar. Although Blake had never been able to spend more time on these levels than it took to duck in and out of the Hope (his accent, his clothes, in fact everything about him made it clear that Blake was the wrong grade to be slumming it in this part of the dome: an obviously suspicious character), he _had_ spent significant time with Bran Foster trying unsuccessfully to recruit deltas to the Freedom Party. He’d also spoken to Vila about what it had been like growing up here. His knowledge was at least six years out of date, but Blake had a good idea of the kinds of issues these people had had under the Federation.

What was upsetting was how similar those issues were to the kinds of things people were telling him today. From their perspective it was as San said – Avon’s government was just another administration, no better or worse than the one that had proceeded him.

“He has _entirely_ removed suppressant drugs from the water supply,” Blake said to one woman who had favoured him with a ten-minute discussion of all the ways Avon’s policies had ruined her life in the last six months. “The Federation didn’t want you to feel angry – Avon’s given you that ability. He’s _allowed_ you to be dissatisfied.”

He felt the full force of the woman’s anger swing from the president to him. “Is that supposed to make me feel _better_?” she demanded, and Blake only just stopped himself shouting back, _Well, it **should** do! _

He _did_ understand. The conditions that these people lived in were appalling, and Avon hadn’t done as much for them as perhaps he might do. But it _was_ something to be allowed to feel how much they’d been wronged, to be allowed to object and think about what one might do to remedy the situation.

Cally and Avalon were both much better at dealing with the stories that they were told. Cally was sympathetic, while Avalon was practical and calm. Neither of them seemed angry or depressed by what they’d heard, so much as determined to put it right. Neither or them seemed likely to shout at the people they’d come to supposedly help, either. Blake was tired – he knew he was tired, because he hadn’t slept and because Cally had taken him to one side soon after he’d spoken to the woman about the drugs, and said, “Blake, are you well? You seem very tired.” But that was no excuse. He _should_ be better at this – he wanted to be better about this, but he wasn’t sure that he would be, even if he had slept the night previously and even if he hadn’t been feeling defensive about people’s reaction to a change _he_ had forced through, and fought for for so long.

What kind of president would he really be if he couldn’t even handle _this?_ Avon would undoubtedly be even worse in this situation, of course, but that wasn’t the point. Avon _obviously_ shouldn’t be president.

Blake found himself silent in conversations in which Avalon and Cally and the girl who had been handing out the flyers for the protest (Poula Hun) talked animatedly together about Avon’s failure with these people, and what _had_ to be done.

It was with relief that Blake remembered that the transport ship from Exbar, among others, was due back today. Inga, like Jenna, was someone unafraid to tell him the truth; who saw his faults, but liked him immensely despite that.

It was easy to persuade the others that they should detour over to the docks on the way home – Cally was eager to meet Inga, who had been described favourably to her by Vila; and Avalon had some associates who had been banished to the nearby planet of Yolland Beta, who would have arrived at the same time.

There was a crowd gathered outside when they arrived. In Blake’s experience, this was rarely a good sign (protests were one thing, but they were generally easy to identify by their placards, which were not evident in _this_ crowd), though the crowd seemed to be primarily composed of people who were irritated or annoyed, rather than deeply angry. The gates to the space dock had been closed about an hour earlier. Nobody had missed a flight yet, but they clearly felt as though they were likely to in the near future.

Cally pushed her way through the crowd, the agility and determination learned as a guerrilla fighter serving her well in this more mundane scenario. Blake, Avalon, Poula, and the two or three others who had accompanied them into Delta 4, followed. Blake arrived at Cally’s elbow in time to hear her answering the man who was guarding the gates.

“My name is Cally – I’m an official ambassador working directly to President Avon. I must surely be allowed to go inside.” She had an official pass, which she had already pressed into the hand not holding a gun.

Interesting, Blake thought, to be on the right side of the law suddenly (it had been six months for Cally, but for him it was still only a few weeks’ old). He was much more used to standing behind Vila as Vila tried to crack the lock for them, or _pretending_ to be a legitimate personage who would be very angry to be kept waiting; now Cally at least actually _was_ a legitimate personage.

“Sorry, ma’am, but our orders are that nobody should go in or out without explicit prior authorisation.”

What was particularly interesting was that, since they _were_ legitimate, they couldn’t just incapacitate the guard and push past him. They had to use the systems that had been set up and if those didn’t work, they had to accept that, which seemed very unappealing.

“Are we at least permitted to know why?” Cally asked.

“I have a very important flight I need to catch in twenty minutes,” Avalon lied, clearly unwilling to buy into respectability too much.

“The gates should be open before then,” the guard said. “We apologise for the inconvenience.”

“But what _is_ the problem?” Blake said. “This government doesn’t believe in cover-ups, surely?”

“It’s not a secret,” the guard said. “We’re unloading a load of dangerous criminals – it was on the news a few weeks ago. They’re heading for the detention centres.”

“I’m sorry,” Blake said, feeling his smile becoming more fixed, “but I _read_ those articles, and I think you’ll find that the people who are being unloaded are actually former political prisoners – prisoners of the previous administration even.”

“Some of them probably are, sir, yes,” the guard said. “Some of them are legitimate criminals. We don’t know which is which until we check them over back at the detention centres.”

“Surely there are _records_ that could distinguish–– _”_ Blake began hotly, but Avalon pulled him away back into the crowd.

“It’s actually quite a sensible policy.”

“Yes, I know,” Blake snapped. “He didn’t mention it in the press releases, though, did he?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Avalon said, “it’s politics. Cally – can we use your apartment for the day’s debrief?”

Cally had finished talking to the guard now and had re-joined them. She nodded her agreement, and the members of the Freedom Party pushed their way back out of the crowd and in the direction of Cally’s home.

Though he knew it made him look petulant, Blake said nothing to anyone until Poula asked him a direct question about the leaflets she’d been printing. He told her everything she’d suggested was good, and watched her walk on happy.

Even then he didn’t relax. It wasn’t just what had actually happened. How _could_ Avalon think he needed to be reminded about what was personal and what was political? Hadn’t he just destroyed his personal relationship with Avon with exactly that knowledge in mind? It was as though she didn’t trust him, or as though she thought was a stupid child, when all this, everything they’d done in the past few weeks, had been Blake’s idea, and nobody had sacrificed more than he had for these changes _and_ for the revolution as a whole.

The debrief took over an hour, and then they discussed what they were going to do the next day – a visit to Delta Quadrant 6. Blake considered whether he could get out of it, decided he couldn’t, and then snarled at Cally when she suggested that perhaps he might be too tired to attend. He didn’t want to, and he was tired, but he would go because he had to.

“All right, that’s settled then,” Avalon said briskly, standing along with the others who had joined them. Only Blake and Cally were left sitting. “See you at Delta 6 at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. Try and sleep before then, Blake.”

Blake waved her off. She was right, but he doubted he would be able to. He still had to get to his feet, leave Cally’s flat, call a taxi and let himself into the flat that Avon had bought him, then _actually_ fall asleep in his otherwise empty bed. None of it sounded remotely appealing or possible.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Cally asked, as though she could read his thoughts as well as project her own. “I can pull the sofa out.”

Blake tried not to look too relieved or pathetic. “Do you mind?”

She shook her head. “I’ll get you some tea.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked when she’d returned, and Blake had his hands wrapped round a steaming mug of some sort of Auronar tea that Cally said would help him relax. Thus far Blake hadn’t actually drunk any of it, because all the Auronar food Cally had given him in the past had tasted bitter and strange to a palate raised in the domes, and he didn’t want to grimace or spit the tea out in front of her. The warmth in his hands was comforting, though, and the fumes were sweet.

“Am I doing the right thing?” Blake asked her eventually.

“What do you think?” Cally said.

“Yes,” Blake said. “I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t think it was right. But then I speak to Vila, and Avon – or rather, I don’t speak to Avon––”

“Neither Vila nor Avon have ever claimed to be a moral authority,” Cally reminded him. “In fact, quite the opposite.”

“So you _do_ think I’m right?” Blake pressed.

“I believe that it’s always right to fight for equality,” Cally said. “And I believe you care very deeply about that fight and that whatever you choose or have chosen to do must have been motivated by your desire for justice.”

“But?” Blake said, sensing this word looming between them.

Cally regarded him steadily and once again Blake got the impression she was either reading his mind or trying to. “I don’t know. You’re ashamed,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know why – not because of what happened to Vila, that was an accident. Some other reason. The results have been good, but you disapprove of your own methods.”

“Story of my life,” Blake muttered.

“Do you want to tell me?”

Blake thought about it. He thought about saying, _I deliberately misrepresented Avon for political gain_. Or perhaps more honestly – _I deliberately lied. I used Avon, who trusted me, to make myself look good._ He had justified it to himself in his head, but he doubted Cally would agree.

“No,” he said.

Cally nodded. “Get some sleep,” she said kindly, taking herself off to bed. Blake drank the tea she’d given him. It tasted awful, as he’d expected, and it didn’t help him to relax.

*

The next day started badly. Blake woke up on Cally’s too-small sofa. He used her computer to try and call Avon, but either Avon had realised Blake might try something like this or he’d blocked Cally’s IP too. A call to Vila had resulted in the computer telling him that Vila Restal could no longer be located in the Terran Domes. Shortly after this, Blake rubbed his face wearily and realised that (of course) his chin was covered in stubble, and that his razor was back in his apartment. He also realised that none of Cally’s clothes were going to fit him so he would have to return to his own apartment after all if he didn’t want to appear in the delta level looking as though he’d offensively tried to blend in by looking as unkempt as possible. 

There were the usual gaggle of reporters hanging around outside the main entrance of his apartment building. A few them turned to take photographs of Blake as he approached, feeling hung-over (though he actually _hadn’t_ drunk anything stronger than the Auronar tea) and worn-out.

“And where did you spend the night?” one of the reporters asked in an insinuating tone as Blake walked past them, not bothering to do more than glare. “Not with the president, I’d say.”

“No comment,” Blake told them.

“Mister Blake, how do you respond to rumours that you and the president are no longer an item?” someone else asked as they all followed him down the driveway.

“Is it true that you’re thinking of leaving Earth?”

“Would you say _vengeful_ was an accurate description of how you’re feeling today, Roj?”

The door slid shut behind Blake, cutting off the reporters’ questions. He took the stairs because it seemed likely to give him less time to brood than the lift. Once he’d showered and dressed, he considered climbing out of the window to evade the mob outside. Just thinking about this possibility made him feel slightly more cheerful, but he knew it was somewhat of an overreaction and besides while pulling on his clothes he’d thought of another idea that he liked less, but which felt more useful.

“If you want something _worth_ reporting on, come with me,” he told the reporters as he left the building again. “If not, I have nothing to say to you.”

After a moment of confusion, a small number of them _did_ follow him – not all (presumably they had other important break-ups to report on), but Blake could hear at least _some_ of them following him, chattering and arguing amongst themselves, leads from the viz-cameras they hadn’t expected to move quite so quickly trailing after them. One of the reporters (a short man with round spectacles perched on a long nose) caught up to Blake as they entered the wide, white lobby that hosted the lifts, which here only went downwards since Blake lived on the top level.

“But _is_ it true that you’ve broken up with the president?” the reporter asked hopefully, fingers poised over a datapad.

“No comment,” Blake said pleasantly. He pressed the button to call the lift.

“We’ve heard that you spent the previous night in someone else’s bed.”

“No comment,” Blake said as the rest of the viz-crew arrived behind the two of them. The lift doors opened, and Blake and the eight reporters and camera-men piled into a lift that probably shouldn’t have held more than seven people. “Press the button for delta 6,” Blake told the woman closest to the lift-operation buttons. She managed to wrench her hand out from between the crush of two other people’s bodies and activate the button. “Thank you,” Blake said as the lift began to move slowly downwards.

He was fortunately next to the window, which helped decrease the claustrophobia slightly. Through it, he could see the floors passing: beta one to six, gamma one to eight, delta one and so on. The bespectacled reporter from earlier was next to him.

“The reason I ask,” he told Blake apologetically, “apart from your own recent MIA status, is that the president was seen last night with a very beautiful blonde lady. Would you care to comment?” He held out his datapad, which did indeed show an image of Avon escorting an attractive woman in a very well-fitted ballgown to some sort of function. She had her arm through his in a gesture of elegant possession.  

“ _That_ is Soolin,” Blake said, having glanced at the image and then back out through the window quickly before the image of Avon upset him. “She’s one of Avon’s bodyguards.”

“Ah,” the reporter said. He seemed disappointed by this lack of a scandal. “Are you sure? You don’t mean ‘No comment’? We could do something with that.”

“That’s Soolin,” Blake said again. “She works for Avon – it should be public record.”

“Then … you’re not threatened by her youth and beauty?” the reporter asked, which Blake chose not to answer at all beyond a bored roll of his eyes.

When they reached the bottom of the dome, the viz-reporters gratefully extracted themselves from the lift and waited for Blake to tell them where they were going next. He gestured that they should follow him to the quadrant entrance, where Cally, Avalon and some members of the Freedom Party (again, no sign of San, though Jyl seemed to have joined the group this morning) were gathered expectantly.

“You seem to have acquired another crew,” Avalon said with some amusement as the reporters hurried to keep up with Blake’s long strides.

“Temporarily, I hope,” Blake said. “But I thought they might like to see what you and I see down here. I hope you’re ready,” he told the reporters, and pushed the quadrant doors open for them.

The actual business of the day was as awful as the day before, but Blake found it easier to pretend it didn’t upset him when he knew a camera was pointed at him. He, Avalon and Cally interviewed nineteen residents in all, with others clustered around, more interested (Blake thought) in the viz cameras than the revolutionaries who had brought them.

“And what would you say, Blake, to President Avon if he’s watching right now?” Blake’s reporter friend with the spectacles asked at the end of the exhausting day of filming.

 _Oh, he’s watching,_ Blake thought. Perhaps he could use this as an opportunity to apologise to Avon, live on air, but they’d just seen some terrible things, and he didn’t feel much like apologising. Besides, it would undermine the entire programme to say that what they’d seen didn’t matter. It did matter. Avon was wrong. So Blake looked into the camera and said,

“Just tell us what you’re doing about this, Avon, if you _are_ doing anything about it at all.” 

*

Over the next few days Blake visited homes, schools, testing centres, treatment centres and recreation centres in not just the delta levels, but the gamma and beta levels too. The viz-crew came too on a few occasions, having deemed it sufficiently amusing to tail after him and bother him about Avon in front of the camera.

On Friday Blake pulled himself together and made a third appearance on Speaker’s Corner, talking about the work he, Avalon and Cally had been doing. They showed a clip of the first newsviz that Blake had orchestrated – a particularly evocative moment in which Blake asked how it made a young boy feel to learn that he was going to grow up knowing he wasn’t being fed suppressant drugs through the water supply, and the lad had (without prompting) said, “Hopeful”.

It seemed Speaker’s Corner at least was still proud of that change it had helped implement – personally Blake found it difficult to be proud anymore. The other clips they hadn’t showed had revealed even more depressing lacunae in the State’s programme of care. There was so much to do, and so little of it seemed to be being done.

The only good thing to happen over the course of the week was that when Blake had eventually checked his computer again on Friday afternoon, he found a message from Vila saying he hadn’t actually left the planet – he’d just gone undercover. There was also a message from Jenna saying she was glad Blake was back safely and if he wanted to talk she’d make time for him. Blake composed a short message for Zen ( _Avon and I were together; now we aren’t together. Both at fault_ ), which received an almost instant response from Jenna who must have been near a console ( _Not surprised x3. Free this evening before 10?_ Blake wrote back that he wasn’t, because he was going to be on the vizzies instead). Even hearing from Jenna, knowing she was alive and well and only fondly irritated with him, made him feel slightly better, though.

On Saturday, having woken up on Cally’s sofa again, Blake went for another walk down to the Hope. He was greeted more like an old acquaintance, now, than a living legend, but that suited him. Having ordered another round of terrible beer at the bar, Blake went through the back room where San and some of the others (minus Poula and Jyl, both of whom were off with Cally somewhere) were gathered, talking about something unsavoury enough that they stopped when they heard his footsteps.

Something would have to be done about that, Blake noted, but it could wait for now.

“I need your help,” he told San as he sat down opposite and began distributing the drinks.

“With what?” San said scornfully. “A bake sale?”

“No,” Blake said calmly. “I want to assassinate my former lover Kerr Avon before he wreaks any more damage on this planet. You have a plan, don’t you?”

*

It took Blake a long time to convince them he was serious, but less time than he’d expected. It was always easy to make people believe what they wanted to believe. By the afternoon they’d showed him their several plans and Blake had rejected all but one of them as being unrealistic or causing far too much collateral damage. The last one, though – yes, he thought the last one might actually work.

The chosen plan relied on a number of factors. Firstly, that Avon wasn’t yet building outside the domes. Although he’d opened the datastreams, he hadn’t _physically_ opened the doors out into the Outside. People weren’t supposed to go there yet, although the Freedom Party had ways of getting in and out unseen. Secondly, the airspace above Earth was still very heavily controlled – a planet-wide shield had been deemed inefficient, but there were pursuit ships stationed in orbit and these were generally effective against anything less well-equipped and determined than the Liberator. Indeed, as far as Blake knew no rebel ship had ever managed to successfully land on Earth. The only successes the rebels had had in this area had been when Federation pilots had defected, and even these ships had been taken out before the citizens in the dome had been aware. Armed satellites generally took out meteorites before they penetrated the atmosphere.

These two factors together meant that the forcefield around the outside of the dome was designed primarily to ensure the integrity of the building materials against normal _weather_ conditions. Nobody (the former administration had concluded) was going to attack the dome from above, and only a badly equipped few were ever going to attack it from the ground. In order to keep out those few there were guards, and the forcefield around the base was stronger for about the first ten metres or so – but the higher you went the more likely it was that you could just put your hand through the field and right onto the fabric of the dome. Naturally this wasn’t common knowledge, even in this new information-free world, but neither was it secret because a large number of operators had to maintain it. At least some of these people talked in the wrong places. The Freedom Party were confident in the accuracy of the information.  

The presidential palace, otherwise known as Residence One, was at the very centre of the dome, and of course – it was at the very top, so that the president could survey his empire spread out below him: alphas close on inner circles of the upper levels spreading out to deltas in the damp corridors on the ground-floor boundaries. Should an assassin be able to reach the very pinnacle of the dome, he could theoretically push his hand through the field onto the roof of the palace.

Of course, if he tried to damage the integrity of the dome surface, alarms would immediately sound within the security centre – so these alarms would have to be shut off, first, which would involve penetrating the security centre at the same time as the assassin on the roof was about to make his entrance. (“The infiltration party will have to carry stun guns, rather than standard weapons,” Blake mused as this element of the plan was explained to him. “I _know_ you wouldn’t mind killing anyone who works for Avon,” he said, catching San’s expression, “but if the infiltration party gets caught with stun weapons they’ll only be temporarily imprisoned, rather than permanently exiled if they commit murder. It _isn’t_ worth it.”)

With the alarms silenced, the assassin could make his way through the president’s private quarters, which would naturally be crawling with the kinds of guards who looked like guards and the kind (like Soolin) who you didn’t realise were armed until they shot you.

The exact layout of the president’s quarters was better protected than the general information about the dome forcefield. Most assassins would have had to extrapolate where Avon might be sleeping or where he would be least protected, which could lose them vital seconds. Blake, on the other hand, had been invited in to Avon’s office. Avon had also once viz-called Blake from his bedroom following the dinner that Blake hadn’t been invited to – the door had been opened at one point by a guard checking on Avon, and Blake had seen the corridor outside was deep blue, rather than the white that was used everywhere else. So, he had a rough idea of where Avon’s bedroom was (it must be far enough away from his office that it was worth having a daybed in an anteroom of the office), he knew _exactly_ where Avon’s office was, and he knew there were buttons that turned off the security cameras if Avon desired privacy. These buttons seemed to be activated only in response to Avon’s fingerprints, but since Avon wouldn’t have had time to design the system himself it seemed likely that a fairly simple hack would work. Vila had taught Blake how to do that one quite early on.

It wouldn’t be easy, and it would involve Blake trusting a team led by San not to murder anyone and not to stand him up on purpose, but … it might work, yes.

The rebels had built a short-range space vehicle from parts of other ships that had been shot down. It would (just about) carry Blake and a pilot up to the top of the dome. San would signal via a coded channel to Blake’s wrist comm when the alarm had been taken care. Then he was on his own.

“When do you want to do it?” San asked once they’d hacked the plan up and put it back together in a way that satisfied them both.

“Tonight,” Blake told him seriously. “We go tonight.”

*

 _Blue walls_ , Blake thought to himself, not allowing himself to mutter as he wanted to as he strode down the corridors of the place. Everything had gone well so far. He was in, San’s people had successfully evacuated, and nobody seemed to have noticed anything except for the loud protest outside the public entrance (though it was chiefly a distraction, the protest was about the recent announcement that the annual grade-testing sessions were going ahead as planned, so Blake considered this a double victory). _Blue walls,_ Blake thought turning a corner. _Blue walls, blue – Ah._

He’d opened a door, and found a stretch of blue corridor. There didn’t seem to be any doors leading off he corridor except the one at the end. Nowhere to take cover either. He’d have to be quick, and hope that either Avon’s apartment was behind the door (unlikely given that the door he’d seen on the vizcall had _seemed_ to be only a few feet or so away from the corridor wall, but possible) or he found another corridor of the same hue.

Glancing back the way he’d come to check there weren’t guards about to start patrolling (there weren’t), Blake took the blue corridor. The change of colour made it seem as though he was in a residential area, rather than the sterile white of the other corridors, which was promising. And there were nicer paintings on the wall (two of which actually _were_ the paintings that had hung in Blake’s flat until recently), and more elaborate, soft lighting. He was _close_ to Avon: he could feel it.

Blake reached the end of the corridor and turned the corner, but the walls beyond were white again. He ducked back behind the door as he heard footsteps. Not really a good idea – there was nowhere obvious to hide in the corridor, but at least it was familiar ground rather than trying to find a cupboard on the other side of the door.

It also didn’t seem likely that anyone would have built an _art gallery_ in what was essentially a closed corridor. Somewhere there _were_ more doors off this corridor – they were just hidden.

Blake pulled off his gloves, and ran a hand alone the wall to his right. After a while he felt a tingle at the tips of his fingers. It might be nothing, but then again it might also be a force-field. He’d brought a set of probes with him, and a set of Avon’s prints taken from a glass Avon had left on the floor by the bed over a week before, now stored in a microreader. If the footsteps were heading this way then he’d didn’t have much time, but it _seemed_ that––

 _Yes._ The probe fizzed, and then the whole wall shuddered and revealed a wooden door that matched the doors at the end of the corridor. Gun in his left hand, Blake pressed the reader against the door button, in case it was print-sensitive, and the door slid open. He peered round the door, but Avon’s bedroom seemed to be empty. Quickly, before either of the corridor doors could open, Blake slipped inside. He located the camera privacy button below the light switch and flicked the reader against it. Then he walked further into the room, pushing the probes and the reader back into his jacket and transferring the gun to his dominant hand.  

Behind the door he found a set of rooms, decorated in rich, dark colours. What Blake had assumed was a bedroom in the vizcall was actually a living area (it looked unused, except for piles of acetates strewn over the sofa), and the room where Avon actually slept was beyond.

Feeling strangely awkward, Blake checked that the bedroom and the en suite were also empty. Avon had practically ripped Blake’s clothes off, pushed him to the bed, and fucked him in another room in Residence One, and obviously he and Blake had shared a bed (however briefly) back at Blake’s flat, but they were separated now, and he had no right to be in his ex-lover’s bedroom. Blake noted someone (presumably not Avon) had made the bed professionally: the crisp sheets were smooth across the surface of the mattress. He had the urge to lie down, collapse into Avon’s sheets, and sleep. But he wasn’t here to _sleep._

As if to remind him of his purpose, the door onto the corridor swished open and somebody entered the living area. Raising his gun again, Blake walked quietly back to the doorway of the bedroom, careful to lay his feet heel to toe gently so the floorboards didn’t squeak. At the doorway itself, he paused for a moment, and then swung out into the main room.

“Good evening, Mister President.”

Avon flinched – with surprise, though it looked for a moment like he’d really been hit, even though Blake had not so much as squeezed the trigger. If it had been one of Avon’s staff Blake had planned to stun them, but Avon was who he was here to speak to. Blake had no intention of shooting him, even with a stun-blast, but he kept the gun raised anyway without really being sure why. To stop Avon just walking away, perhaps, but like the time Avon had pointed a gun at him (early into their acquaintance, on the flight deck of the Liberator) it clearly wasn’t a believable threat. Avon was surprised and unsettled to find that Blake was in his room, but not in fear of his life.  

“ _Blake_ ,” Avon said harshly, as though it was an accusation: _Of course, you would do this. Of course, you’re here._

He seemed to be casting around for something else to say, and eventually landed on, “You’ve built another teleport after all.”

“I’ve _what_?” Blake said.

“Ah. That isn’t how you got in?”

“The teleport? No, of course not.”

“Well,” Avon said, recovering himself, “since you must therefore know where the door is, I suggest you use it.”

“No, thank you,” Blake said, without lowering his gun. “You and I are going to talk, Avon. We’re going to discuss what happened like civilised men.”

“We _are_ talking,” Avon said, “and I have no interest in discussing what happened, whatever that means. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m rather tired.” He began moving slowly towards the edge of the room, past the sofa, towards the wall where there were presumably hidden panic buttons that would call Soolin or someone else from Avon’s bodyguard. “If you aren’t going to remove yourself, I can arrange for you to _be_ removed."

Without really thinking it through, Blake tackled him to the floor, the same way that Avon had pushed him out of the way of the bomb Cally had laid on the primary power channel, twisting his body at the last minute so that Avon wouldn’t be the one who hit the floor but rolling back and pinning him down so Avon couldn’t escape either. He could not afford to be hauled from the building. He could not afford for Avon to dismiss him.

“Are you _insane_?” Avon demanded, trying to push Blake off with his hands and feet.

“Possibly,” Blake agreed harshly, feeling again the familiar echoes of earlier conversations with Avon. “But you are going to listen regardless.”

“You’re deluded.”

“You gave me nothing else to work with,” Blake snarled, feeling all of the pent-up frustration and anger and guilt of the past week flooding through him. “I used the tools available to me, because you gave me _nothing_. You told me you were rebuilding the universe, but that all you wanted me for was affirmation and a new teleport.

“So _yes_ ,” he continued, moving off Avon to allow him to sit up, since Avon had stopped struggling, “I lied. I told millions of people that you would have drugged them if they hadn’t protested. I told them you’d never shown any natural leadership abilities. I said you’d taken advantage of Vila. I took Cally away from you. And of course I suggested to you that we spend time together in public with the specific intention of keeping myself and my policies in the news.”

He’d watched recordings of the relevant episode of Speaker’s Corner over and over again to pick out the parts that would have hurt Avon. They formed a litany in his head while he couldn’t sleep: _I lied, I insulted you, I turned your friends against you, I used you._

“I’m not proud of any of it,” Blake finished, “but you know you gave me no other choice.” Avon’s face, which Blake had expected to harden with anger, was curiously blank. “What is it?” Blake asked.

“You went out with me to … keep yourself in the news,” Avon said. Clearly he hadn’t realised that was what was happening. Blake kicked himself mentally for bringing it up, even though it was something he felt guilty about and therefore something Avon deserved to know.

“In public,” Blake said. “Only in public, and only after _someone_ had already leaked the story to the press. If it had been down to me, I would have kept our relationship private, I promise you.”

“I could hardly have predicted _this_ ,” Avon protested.

“What?” Blake said. What Avon had said clicked over in his brain. “ _You_ told them?”

Avon gave a thin smile, and rose gracefully to his feet. “You’re not the only one in politics now, Blake.”

Blake swore. Then he said, “ _Why?”_ and then he shook his head. More anger wouldn’t help anything. Avon had chosen to sit on the sofa, rather than calling for help, so he was clearly willing to listen as long as Blake could get the thing out. Unwilling to prostrate himself at Avon’s feet, Blake stood, and tried not to pace. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter – it doesn’t _absolve_ me of anything I did. I’m just glad I didn’t accuse San of doing it – we’re hardly the best of friends as it is.”

“San – ah, the erstwhile leader of the Freedom Party.”

“San is _still_ the leader of the Freedom Party.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Avon said with snide amusement, and Blake swung round to glare at him.

“You know I _came_ here to apologise––”

“Did you? Well, I’ve heard better,” Avon said.

“––but even _if_ you thought I'd try and take the presidency away from you, and I accept I might well have done, this _isn’t_ how you treat someone you supposedly value. You’ve shut me out from everything I ever thought was important. You didn’t even have the decency to tell me you were breaking up with me.”

“How much input did you give me into our attack on Central Control, Blake?” Avon said. “Star One? I learned it all from you.”

“That was entirely different.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Avon snarled, leaning forward at last. “And if we are having this conversation, Blake, as it seems we are, then I’ll tell you that few things have made me angrier than the way you laugh about your behaviour on the Liberator every time before you condemn me for the same thing.”

“The _stakes_ are different,” Blake said. “Our _relationship_ is different, and I’m sorry, but _yes,_ the fact that I know a hell of lot more about what you’re doing now than you knew about building a formal resistance movement _makes a difference._ I also did what I did because I thought I was _right_ , rather than to punish you.”

“You feel punished, do you? Helpless?”

“Yes!”

“ _Good_ ,” Avon said viciously. “Now you know what it feels like.”

He looked away, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression closed. “That’s not why I did any of this, though. In fact, quite the opposite. I have been thinking, therefore … about all the things you’ve been saying on the news. Perhaps we need some sort of hearing court – where new policies are aired, and anyone who wants to can comment on them before they pass into law. Naturally, you would be able to attend.”

“Yes,” Blake said, feeling taken aback. “Exactly. That would perfect.”

In fact, it was far better than Blake himself would have pushed for. Difficult to get anything done, perhaps, if everyone could weigh in, but there could be systems that would help decision-making. And if there truly was dissention from populace about an issue, it was _right_ that the law wasn’t passed and the change not made.

“Wonderful,” Avon said flatly. “Well, then, I’ll let you know when it happens. You can show yourself out, I assume.”

He obviously considered the conversation closed. A solution offered and accepted, like in the old days, but nothing any closer to being resolved between them. In fact, if anything things were worse now than they had been before Blake had arrived. Clearly Avon must think it didn’t matter to Blake whether they were together at the end of this or not, or perhaps Avon had decided that _he_ didn’t want to be together, given everything that had happened. It would make sense.

 _Why,_ Blake berated himself, couldn’t he just keep his temper? Well, it was obvious _why_ , and he definitely had the _right_ to be angry, particularly now, but it wasn’t helping. Sometimes his anger felt like another tool – something to keep him focused and push him onwards when any sane man would have given up. But Avon responded to Blake’s anger by closing down, as he had done at Star One. That meant it wasn’t a debate or an argument; it was just Blake shouting at someone who was clearly upset. That meant his anger wasn’t a tool, it was just a liability – something he couldn’t control that hurt the person he cared most about.

“ _Avon_ ,” he said imploringly, meaning, _I know you understand me better than this._

When Avon didn’t turn his head to look at him, Blake crossed to the arm of the sofa, paused for a moment, and then _did_ kneel again, to bring his face to approximately the same level as Avon’s.

“If you do want an apology, then – yes, I’m sorry.” His voice still sounded harsh, and Blake tried to smooth it down, to gentle it because, for once, he wasn’t lying or trying to hold anything back. “I am genuinely sorry. I would like to be able to tell you that you’re more important to me than all this, and I can’t. I don’t even think you’d want me to. But I _do_ value you. And you’re right – I have never treated you as though I do. I assume _that,_ actually, is why we never tried this,” he gestured between the two of them, “on the Liberator. From your side at least, though I wasn’t ever completely sure that you liked me, either.”

At last, Avon turned to look at him, the slight flicker of one eyebrow expressing disbelief despite the sardonic impassiveness of the rest of his expression.

“No, I’m not joking,” Blake said. “So whenever you’re ready to make your own apology, please – go ahead.”

“You don’t consider the complete reorganisation of the Central Administration in your image good enough.”

Blake huffed a laugh. “Given that you did it at least partly to punish me, and to show me up, I think I’d find that difficult, don’t you? But it’s a good piece of work. You said on the day I came back to Earth that you wanted to make the decisions of a good man. If it means anything to you, I think you have. You’re certainly a competent president.” Avon didn’t react, which Blake had expected. It had been worth saying it to him, though. No less than Avon deserved. He got to his feet before his knees and his dignity began to protest too much. “Whereas I begin to think I really wouldn’t be.”

“If you want me to reassure you, you’ll be waiting a long time.”

Blake shook his head. “I don’t.”

The one time Avon had announced that Blake should be president it had been a rational judgment, based on a number of factors that no longer existed. There were no warring factions to unite (except those Blake had helped to create), and Avon had successfully toppled the Federation without him. Avon’s initial suggestion had also been a sort of exchange – give me the Liberator, and you can have the presidency. Well, Avon had everything now, the Liberator and the presidency, so he was hardly likely to offer either to someone who had nothing. Whether Blake was or wasn’t genuinely suited for the job (and he was genuinely looking at the way he dealt with the people he was trying to help and finding himself lacking; and the ways he used the media and finding it promoted all the things he liked least about himself; and at the speed in which he could get things done and finding it exasperating), he had little doubt that Avon would never again tell him he should do it.

“I’m thinking of leaving Earth,” Blake said, though he hadn’t been. He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it. A cheap piece of manipulation presumably – Avon wouldn’t apologise or reassure him, but he had been very upset at the idea of Blake leaving Earth only a few weeks ago. If anything was likely to make him react this would; and it would perhaps punish him in return – assuming that he did still care. Politics.

If that was the case, Blake knew he should tell Avon that he didn’t mean it, before Avon got upset. But he found he did mean it, so he let it stand. Earth was in good hands, even if those hands did things that Blake wouldn’t have done or in a different order than he would have done them in. Avon was going to introduce democracy, while Blake had (he hoped) allowed people to think they could and _should_ participate in that democracy when it appeared. As Avon had pointed out, though, Blake wasn’t good at being part of the kind of system he’d worked so hard to implement. He found it almost impossible to accept anything other than exactly what _he_ thought was right. That wasn’t democracy. So, he should go now they had it. The people would decide where Earth went next – that was how it should be. Blake could do more elsewhere.

“When?” Avon said.

“Not yet,” Blake said, hearing in Avon’s flattened tone that this suggestion _had_ upset him, and feeling an answering warmth that made him want to be generous rather than cruel to Avon. That meant not touching him, not pushing him; just reassuring him about issues he hadn’t even asked about.

Avon was sitting very still, very contained, on the sofa, as though they hadn’t just been shouting at each other. Instant recovery, emotions all under control again – one of Avon’s specialities. He looked tired, though, as though he too wasn’t sleeping well. Not surprising. He had a difficult job, which he’d never really wanted. The friends who could have supported him during it were either absent or standing against him.

It wouldn’t have helped to say it, but Blake knew exactly how he felt.  

“You _could_ come with me,” he offered.

“Why on Earth would I do that?” Avon said.

Presumably it was a rhetorical question, and Avon didn’t want Blake to say, _Because I’m still fairly sure you like me more than all of this._ Avon too could probably do more elsewhere, where he could use his primary skills, rather than fighting Blake’s battles for him in arenas that even Blake found frustrating. Avalon’s and Cally’s hands were just as safe as Avon’s, perhaps more so.

Blake contented himself with a wry grin at Avon’s denial. He tucked his gun back into his waistcoat.

“I’ll show myself out.” He turned towards the door.

“You’d have to wait until after the elections,” Avon said.

Blake turned back towards him, eyebrow raised. Was that an acceptance of his offer, or just an acknowledgement that things could still go wrong with the election process and Blake should be around to keep an eye on it? Unhelpfully Avon seemed to be pretending that he hadn’t said anything at all, and merely indicated the door with a finger.

Blake held up his hands in surrender, pressed the door-release button, and walked out into the hallway. The door swished shut behind him.

At the end of the blue corridor, Blake was met by Soolin, who fell into step with him as he retraced his steps back into the more public area of the palace. Although he couldn’t see a gun anywhere on her that didn’t mean there wasn’t at at least one. Avon must have called her the moment Blake had left the room. Either that or there had been a panic button he hadn’t seen, which was a rather alarming thought.

“Are you going to tell me how you got in?” she asked, her voice friendly but tinged with menace. Whatever it was that he’d done shouldn’t have been possible.

“In detail,” Blake agreed. “I don’t want anyone else using the route I took. Who knows, they might even want to assassinate the president – if you can believe that.”

“The world is full of lunatics,” Soolin said. “Meanwhile I like a lot of detail, and I don’t tire easily. I hope you weren’t planning on sleeping very much tonight.”

“Certainly not with any degree of confidence,” Blake said, and allowed himself to be led away to an interrogation room.

*

Soolin eventually released him at about two in the morning, much earlier than had seemed possible or likely. Clearly, she _did_ believe him when Blake explained (rather pathetically, he thought) that he and Avon had had a fight, and it had seemed proportionate to the issue at hand for him to climb in through the roof and hold Avon at gunpoint until he listened. Presumably Avon had in some way communicated what had happened to her, and he was certainly still alive which gave Blake’s story some credibility, but it was also clear that any plans Blake had had about presenting himself as a normal, _rational_ member of the population were failing abysmally. 

After a slight crisis of conscience, Blake _had_ told Soolin that there were members of the Freedom Party who would have been very happy to learn Avon was dead. It was a betrayal of trust, and would probably lock him out of the Freedom Party forever, but he owed Avon far more than he owed San.

“I don’t think they would actually have _done_ anything if I hadn’t suggested it, though,” he had explained. “Watch them, certainly, but I don’t think anyone needs to be brought in. Really.”

He took a taxi back to his own apartment. Rather than wear out his welcome with Cally, he’d stayed with her only a few nights before pretending to pull himself together. The reporters were growing tired of him refusing to comment, and there were fewer and fewer outside each day. At this time of the night there were none at all, and Blake entered the building as silently as he had slipped through the corridors of the presidential palace. For once, the whirling thoughts inside his head were relatively still. Blake fell to sleep quickly, too tired to remove any of his clothes other than the jacket.

Some time later (minutes or hours? He wasn’t sure, though it was still dark), Blake woke to the sound of someone walking through his living room. The floorboards creaked in an ostentatious manner that was supposed to make it clear they were real wood, rather than imitation. One of the early morning reporters come to pay him a visit, perhaps; or (his slowly waking brain presented other options) Vila’s man with the grappling hook; or perhaps San, having learned he was betrayed and correctly supposing that murdering Blake in his bed would be almost as effective as murdering Avon.

The jacket Blake had worn earlier in the evening was on the floor, and still had his gun tucked into an inner pocket. (Soolin had allowed him to keep it once she’d discovered it was only a stun weapon.) Blake leant over the bed and tugged the jacket towards him. He’d only just caught hold of the butt of the gun as he heard the door to the bedroom slide open. He swung the gun up and level with the face of whoever it was. The light from outside in the living room lit the intruder from behind, picking up the crisp white of his shirt and the slight curl of the hair at the back of his head where he couldn’t quite get it to lie flat.

Blake lowered the gun.

“This is getting to become a habit,” Avon said as the door slid shut again behind him, plunging them both back into grimy darkness.

Blake thought about asking why Avon had chosen to walk in on him in the early hours of the morning, but he was still tired. It would be easy to get it wrong, pushing Avon away after he’d only just returned, so he contented himself with just grunting agreement and turning over onto his side, away from Avon. In the unlikely event that Avon had come to assassinate _him,_ at least it would all be over quickly.

A moment or two later, he felt Avon join him under the covers and smiled. Then Avon’s voice close to his ear said, “You shouldn’t go to sleep in your clothes.”

“I know,” Blake said. They’d been together only a few weeks but he already knew that it drove Avon nuts that Blake frequently fell asleep fully dressed.

“So you’re going to change,” Avon said. Now that was either related to his previous statement about the clothes, or their previous conversation back at the palace. Blake tried to prod his brain back to wakefulness enough to deal with this. Eventually he decided Avon properly meant the clothes.

“Avon, it’s four in the morning,” he said into the pillow.

“Closer to five, actually,” Avon said. “And? I’m not sure how that’s relevant.”

Blake considered ignoring him, and just trying to fall asleep again. But he _had_ implied he was going to change, to try and prove he valued Avon. He forced himself to get up, and tugged his shirt and trousers off, throwing them into the corner of the room. Once this was done, he got back into bed, and tugged Avon towards him (unlike him, Avon had undressed to sleep, and his skin felt pleasantly cool and dry under Blake’s bare arm). He shut his eyes again, his nose buried in the crook of Avon’s neck where he could breathe in the comforting scent of Avon’s skin.  

“Incidentally, this isn’t an apology or a sign I’ve forgiven you,” Avon said.

“I didn’t think it was,” Blake said, though he was smiling in the dark where Avon couldn’t see him. “Now go to sleep.”

“You know I think I will,” Avon agreed, and Blake felt himself relax properly for the first time all week.

*

“So,” Tol Wade said brightly, “tell me more about these hearing court of yours. They sound _fascinating_.” The studio lights sparkled off the gold flecks in the fabric of his suit jacket, the diamond tie-pin he wore, and (of course) his teeth.

Blake smiled back. “Have you been to one?”

“I couldn’t get in!” Tol said. “The queue was already wrapped around the building by the time I arrived.”

He turned to the audience for sympathy, which they duly gave. Blake smiled again benignly.

“We’re aware there have been some problems with popularity. Frankly we weren’t sure whether anyone would even turn up, but it’s clear now that we need to allow people to attend remotely – we’re not sure how to set that up. Broadcasting is fine, but we need people to be able to contribute as well, and that’s the difficult part. But Avon has been working on something, haven’t you?”

He turned to Avon, who was sitting regally next to him in what (Blake noted suddenly) was a much better chair than they’d given him. So much for an equal society.

“Yes,” Avon said. Silence. Blake gestured at him to continue. “Oh, you want more than that, do you?” Avon said, seeming genuinely surprised, although he and Blake _had_ talked about the show for some time and repeatedly before this evening. Avon had seemed to find the suggestion that he wasn’t able to answer questions in a civilised and engaging manner both offensive and ridiculous. Blake had pushed him so far, and then allowed the matter to drop. He had, however, allowed Avon to dress him for this appearance (a stiff high-collared shirt under a long, darker grey waistcoat, pale trousers) in an attempt to prove that he, at least, was not completely intractable. He suspected Avon had seen right through this, but had been willing to take advantage of the opportunity, no matter why it was offered. Unfortunate, really. The shirt collar was getting more uncomfortable by the minute.

“Well, it’s quite simple really,” Avon said, and launched into a highly technical discussion that only Blake and a few other people who had either shared Avon’s speciality or worked on this particular project with him could have possibly understood. Tol turned hopefully back to Blake.

“In about a week a new programme will be installed onto all the computers in the Terran Domes,” Blake explained. “Two new programmes actually – if we can get the interstellar communications tool to work without changing out the hardware––”

“We have,” Avon said.

“Sorry?” Blake said, slipping from the register of the interview.  

“Orac and I have worked out a way to instruct a remote machine to essentially rewire itself, the way Orac conducts its self-repair programmes. I told you that last night, and you said it was a brilliant innovation.”

“If it works, it’s more than brilliant. It’s revolutionary.”

“But not memorable, apparently,” Avon said.

Blake chose not to say, _It was three in the morning and I was asleep._ He smiled more broadly as he always did on this show whenever he was irritated and unwilling to show it. He saw Avon’s mouth twitch as though Avon had noticed this, and was amused to have been the cause of the effect.

“So that’s two programmes then,” Blake continued, for the benefit of the audience, “which will download onto everyone’s computers in the new few weeks. Now, you don’t have to use them, but they’ll be there if and when you do want to. The first, as we discussed earlier, will allow you to communicate with people off world – that’s very important because it means that people who don’t live on Earth are able to participate in the forums. The other programme will allow you to connect with the debate and participate in it.”

“I’m sorry, Roj, but it sounds to me as though it’s going to degenerate into chaos,” Tol said, laughing as though Blake had been very foolish and was about to realise it.

“No, we don’t think so,” Blake said. “Our previous misapprehensions regarding popularity aside, we’re fairly confident this will work.”

“But, realistically, there is no way you can possibly listen to the voices of millions of people – thousands of millions across all the entire alliance – and take their accounts into consideration.”

“Not personally, no,” Avon said, “but meeting in person is inefficient on a number of levels – this is only one. What we’re going to do is listen _virtually._ And therefore we can take virtually everyone’s voices into account. _”_

“At our end, Orac – that’s the computer Avon was talking about earlier – will digest everyone’s commentaries and essentially gauge the feeling of the people,” Blake said. “Avon’s government, or whichever government follows, will then use this synthesis to inform policy. Any comments Orac deems are particularly relevant will be relayed in full to the incumbent body. Orac’s processing capacity is more than equal to the task.”

“I assume you’ve considered alternatives,” Tol said. “Elected representatives being the most obvious.”

“Yes. We’ve considered several alternatives,” Blake said.

“Blake is against elected representatives,” Avon explained helpfully. 

“Now that _clearly_ isn’t true,” Blake said, trying not to sound as though he was irritated, and smiling more broadly than ever. “If it were, I would hardly be supporting the imminent general elections, now would I?”

“I don’t know,” Avon said, enjoying being wilfully perverse as usual. “There could be many reasons for that.”

“One of which is that I could genuinely think they’re a good idea.”

“Now I do want to talk about the elections,” Tol said, “so we’ll come back to it in a moment, but is there a reason you _aren’t_ using elected representatives for your forum?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Blake said.

“I had the Orac idea first,” Avon said. “I didn’t waste my time thinking of anything worse.”

Blake leant over and clapped a hand firmly over his mouth. Tol looked alarmed, and several people in the audience started to laugh at the president being manhandled in this way, and then thought better of it. There was an uneasy ripple of silence that made it clear that Blake had their complete attention. Good.

“I do think there’s a place for elected officials in Earth’s government,” Blake said smoothly, as though he wasn’t doing anything childish, and as though Avon wasn’t trying to bite him, “hence the elections. There will need to be people to ensure that the right systems are put in place, and to ensure that changes that the people have chosen are enacted – but I don’t think any of us are happy at the idea of other people choosing for us, even people that we’ve chosen to follow.” He ignored the significant look at Avon gave him at this point.

“People will always have their own agenda, they may forget something that was important, and by the time they’re debating with each other it’s suddenly very possible for the better orator to carry the day, rather than person with the better point.” By this time Avon had given up struggling, and was merely sitting with a bored expression on the part of his face that was still visible.

“That’s not to say rhetoric shouldn’t have a place in our society either – I feel very strongly that viz-shows like this can and should still exist. Issues should be brought to the attention of the people before anyone can know what they think about them enough to _care_ what happens in the votes; it _should_ be possible to change someone’s mind with a rational argument, but this way you have to convince a lot of people about every issue, rather than just convince them to vote for you once and leave you to it. We hope it will be a good system.”

“At the very least Orac has suggested that this approach is unlikely to be a complete disaster,” Avon said, finally released from Blake’s hold and acting, now, as though it hadn’t happened. “That makes it significantly better than most of Blake’s ideas.”

“Or yours,” Blake retorted. “Orac also has the ability to make some basic predictions about the future,” he explained for the benefit of the audience and the host, who was for his part still looking as though he was wondering whether Avon’s security people were about to take Blake out and whether he, Tol Wade, would be arrested as an accessory. Blake smiled encouragingly at him.

“… A useful device,” Tol said.

“Yes. It’s rather a pain to give it up, almost entirely, to take part in this project,” Avon said.

“It _was_ your idea,” Blake reminded him.

“But then Orac _is_ itself rather a pain,” Avon said, “so perhaps we’ll be better without it, you never know.”

“I must say,” Tol said, back in the swing of things again, “on a personal note, it’s lovely to see the two of you getting on so well again, after those nasty rumours we all heard about.”

Avon turned to look at Blake, apparently in bemusement. “Are we getting on well?”

“I must have missed it,” Blake said with a shrug, though Tol was right. Stupid though it was, and even though he knew Tol wasn’t really delighted and that nobody watching really cared, it made Blake genuinely happy to be reminded that his relationship _was_ working.

He and Avon had settled back into each other again properly. After the awkwardness of the early days of their sexual relationship (coping with the effects of long absence, thwarted ambitions, and simultaneously trying too hard to appease each other) and then the complete breakdown of communication following the grading episode of Speaker’s Corner, they had finally moved into something that was a better version of how they’d interacted on board the Liberator. They could be irritated at each other, and they could be good friends, and they could fuck each other at the same time – it turned out, those _weren’t_ mutually exclusive states. Some of this, now, was an act – they were both playing for the cameras, even and especially Avon, who was pretending he didn’t understand how he was supposed to behave. But it was only a heightened version of how they really spoke to each other, and more real, therefore, than the dignified silence Avon had attempted to impose between them or the single-minded, drunken desire that had characterised some of the days before that.

Blake also liked that everyone watching _knew_. Avon was his, and everyone watching knew it. A few days before this recording, Avon had let slip that he’d originally passed information to Speaker’s Corner about their relationship for no other reason than that he’d wanted to lay claim to Blake in front of millions of people. If he’d said so before Blake would have been touched, but not understood. Now he did. It wasn’t that it wasn’t real if no one else knew, but that they _did_ know seemed to further validate the relationship somehow, to give it permanency. Neither of them could ever completely deny it and brush it away. It was real enough to be spoken of in public.

“How _are_ you going to feel running against each other again in the elections?” Tol asked. “I hope we won’t see a resumption of hostilities.”

He chuckled – their break-up was clearly now a joke, both as something that could be compared to a war, and as something that was unlikely to happen again. Blake glanced at Avon to see whether he wanted to say it first, and continued when Avon didn’t.

“Actually I’m not standing.”

“No!” Tol said, hamming it up, but also Blake thought probably genuinely surprised.

“Mm. There was certainly a time when I wanted to be president, but I’m glad to say that particular malady has now passed.”

“That is, I think I speak for everyone here, genuinely a real shame. Please - tell us: why the change of heart?”

“It was actually just a change _back,_ ” Blake said. “I think I only wanted to be president, really, for about a month – two months, perhaps, at the absolute most. And that was only because I thought I’d have to be.”

“Easily confused,” Avon said.

“Too trusting,” Blake retorted. “Someone I relied on told me I’d have to do it, and I thought they were right.” Avon liked that one – Blake saw the corner of his mouth twitch again. “The situation has changed, though. It’s clear that I’m _not_ needed. And so I really am very happy to leave the business of governance to other people, as long as they’re the right people, and they listen to the people they’re governing. They should be the right people, if we’ve set up these elections properly.”

“And so you’ll be supporting President Avon’s campaign, I assume?” Tol said. “I must say, that’s very--”

“No, no, no,” Blake said, “I said the _right_ people, not someone who just walked in off the street at the right moment.”

“Excuse me, I resent that,” Avon said.

“Yes, I thought you would,” Blake said, “and it _is_ a slight exaggeration, I admit. You did a good job … overall, but this has never been your dream. And you know, even if I’m not standing, I do still have my own party to support.”

“The Freedom Party,” Tol supplied, to keep himself in the conversation.

“The _New_ Freedom Party,” Blake corrected. “Rather confusingly, I believe the original Freedom Party is _also_ standing in the election, but they’re led by San Rigel, and their policies are rather different from ours. We splintered.”

A neat way of summarising the events that had followed the 'assassination' attempt, none of which had been pleasant. Blake had considered attempting to justify why Avon was still alive to the FP, if only because he wondered whether he owed it to Earth to try and stop San blowing up bits of the dome in an attempt to get Avon in a less subtle way. But eventually, he’d decided that that was Soolin’s job, and that he should try and learn when he was beaten, if he _was_ beaten, and to move onto another fight that he could win. He’d gone back to the Hope only once, and had left fairly rapidly. The two other occasions on which he had seen San had also been brief – and Blake generally felt that the less said about them the better.

“My faction is led by Avalon,” Blake explained, “who is my personal choice for our next president.”

“A highly respectable candidate,” Tol said. “But, Mister President,” he turned to Avon, “I _must_ ask - how does it make you feel to sit here, in front of a crowd of millions of people, and listen to your partner saying he _isn’t_ going to support you?”

“Unsurprised,” Avon said. Blake raised an eyebrow in amused challenge. Avon gave him an unimpressed look, and then turned his attention back to the host. “But then, as he and I both know, this whole conversation is something of a fallacy.”

“Really? In what way?” Tol said.

“Well,” Avon said, as though this were obvious, “simply that I won’t be standing for president either.”

*

There had been uproar for a while. Avon hadn’t bothered to calm anything down. In fact, he'd seemed to enjoy the outpouring of emotion in the studio that had followed, taking it as some sort of tribute to the work that he’d done and the effect that he’d had on the Terran population. It had fallen to Blake, therefore, to explain that Avon wasn’t about to leave before his successor was in place; that he still had plenty of plans he wanted to see through before the elections, including the complete abolition of slavery; and that he would, of course, still maintain a keen interest in Earth even after it was someone else’s model shipyard to play with.

Reporters were flocked around the studio exits as they left, and around the front of Blake’s apartment building. After a few days of this, Blake asked Orac to rent him another flat in the beta zone under a false name (probably a misuse of government equipment now – _as_ Orac reminded him). This was discovered about a week later, as was Inga’s flat which Blake managed to stay in for almost a fortnight before someone climbed in through the window (though without a grappling hook) and had to be forcibly shown the door as they tried to take photographs. Eventually Avon allowed Blake to move into the palace instead, though he was extremely ungracious about it.

Orac had 'forgotten' to tell them about several very public, very problematic issues that would beset the public forums, and these all needed to be dealt with. Getting rid of slavery was, like almost everything Blake had tried to do since returning to Earth, far more difficult than even his most negative estimates. He also spent time travelling with Avalon and Cally essentially campaigning for an election victory, because there would be nothing worse than the people of the Terran Domes, of sound mind and body, unbiasedly and of their own free will, choosing someone like _San_ to lead them.

The elections themselves were tense, but at least they were over quickly. Orac collated the votes and announced a winner within six hours. Twenty-seven parties had formed and presented a candidate for office, including the Freedom Party, the New Freedom Party, and Avon’s former party – the Enterprise Party, which was now led by Avon’s former Chancellor, a sour-faced man called Limmell, who Avon said was a sound financial mind, and who Blake could barely stand to be in the same room with for an hour.

The NFP scraped a victory. Three other parties (including the Enterprise Party, but _not_ San’s Freedom Party) were only a few thousand votes away from the NFP's total, but overall Blake felt it was a good result. The only problem was that, despite not standing as a recognised candidate, and therefore not being a viable option in the voting form, _Avon_ had managed to garner a few thousand votes as an independent candidate.

“Someone injected false data into the system and somehow managed to fool Orac into accepting it,” Avon announced after an hour or two of investigation. “Clever. Very clever, since it should have been impossible. Irritating, too, of course, but at least the motive probably isn’t political.”

 _“How_ can it not be political?” Blake demanded, even more stressed now than he had been before the votes had been counted. “They’ve meddled with the first free vote Earth’s had in hundreds of years.”

They hadn’t told anyone yet that this incident had occurred, but someone was going to ask _soon._ Avon had promised the day before that Orac would have a judgement almost instantly.

“Ah, but I didn’t win,” Avon said. “Not even close. That’s why I think whoever did this was just saying hello, trying to get my attention. Not a bad idea. I _would_ have ignored a CV, but now I’m really rather interested in how they did this. And of course, now I know the weaknesses in our voting system – if anything, we should thank them.”

“I’d have thanked them if they’d asked _first,”_ Blake said. “This is just fraud!”

“As far as I can see, the only votes that were tampered with were the ones for me.”

“Yes, _as far as you can see_.”

“Are you going to insist on another vote?” Avon asked. “You know you might _not_ win next time.”

“I _know.”_ Blake paced as far as Avon’s sofa, and then turned back. “You’re _sure_ the only votes that were tampered with are these ones for you?”

Avon shrugged. “Of course you _might_  also win again. I really don’t know.”

Blake shook his head. “If we tell everyone the system was hacked the first time we turned it on, there’s no reason they should trust it ever again. _That,_ incidentally, could be the political motive you said there wasn’t.”

“I said _probably_ wasn’t,” Avon said as Blake sank onto the sofa, massaging his temples with his fingertips. It should be an easy choice. What had he fought for if not the transparent operation of power? But it wasn't. The Enterprise Party had only need another three thousand votes. 

“Mister President?” someone said from outside, summoning Avon with that title probably the last time. They were waiting for an answer.

Avon glanced at the door, tapping a laser probe against the palm of his hand, and then back at Blake. He arched an eyebrow.

“Well, I won’t tell, if you won’t.”

*

Avalon was sworn in as president a day later. She promised to govern wisely and well, and people generally seemed to believe her. Avon moved out of the palace, which meant Blake also moved out. Jenna came back to swear her allegiance to the new administration, and dropped by for dinner before she flew out again. Avon behaved very well throughout this meeting, and then asked Jenna when she was going to give Liberator back to him. Jenna fixed him with a very cool stare, which Avon returned, just as coolly, and then Jenna laughed.

“I don’t think Zen would have you.” She grinned. “When are you going to give back Blake?”

“When I’m bored,” Avon said while Blake spluttered in amused disbelief.

*

“So,” Blake said later that night, “what now?”  Gently he kissed the top of Avon’s head, which was resting against his shoulder as though they might go to sleep like this, though in fact Blake knew that if he let it happen he’d wake up with all sorts of cramps. Avon’s hair was soft and silky, and it smelled of overpriced vanilla-scented shampoo. The curve of Avon’s back, which Blake was idly stroking, was also soft, though in a different way; and Blake’s brain felt soft, stupid with exhaustion, but underneath all that he knew he was satisfied.  

“I expect I’ll go to sleep,” Avon said.

“I meant after that.”

“I know you did,” Avon said. “I also know you must have several plans, since you’ve been thinking about leaving Earth for some time. So, why waste time pretending you don’t?”                                                                                  

“Perhaps I just want to see whether any of yours are better.”

“Of course they are," Avon said, allowing Blake to kiss him. "Whether you agree they are is another matter entirely.”

Blake ran his hands down over the curve of Avon’s spine, and then back up again into his hair. After Blake had indulged himself in a few jokes about leaving for Jenna’s, Avon taken pains to assure Blake that he didn’t find him boring, and was unlikely to do so in the future. This had involved Avon allowing Blake to fuck him ragged while Avon cursed him and told him how wonderful he was.  

Avon was probably still sensitive, and Blake considered running his hand down into the cleft of Avon’s arse and seeing if that made him twitch, but decided against it. Instead he took Avon’s uppermost hand in his and brought it up to his mouth, biting down gently on Avon’s fingertip.

“Try me.”

“...All right,” Avon said, tugging his hand back and settling himself more comfortably against Blake’s chest. “It has occurred to me that no one has yet retro-engineered the teleport. Someone will do it eventually – you and I could do it within a few months.”

“Possibly,” Blake allowed.

“But why stop there?” Avon said as though he hadn’t heard this. “Jenna shouldn’t have the only ship in the galaxy that can self-repair itself. Or the only ship with advanced tissue-regeneration facilities.”

“Couldn’t we just steal another DSV?” Blake asked.

“Oh wonderful. As usual you’ve picked the most life-threatening solution to the problem,” Avon said. “I was thinking of a team of handpicked scientists, working together to my specification.”

“I see. Including me?”

“Naturally. And I’ve tracked down that boy who broke Orac’s voting machine – he’s keen, hero-worships me, apparently. He’s also not at all unpleasant to look at.”

“I hate him already,” Blake said.

“So that’s three of us,” Avon continued, as though he hadn’t heard _this_ either, though Blake felt Avon smiling against his chest. “And I’m sure we could find other attractive, unscrupulous, clever, young people to recruit without expending too much energy. Then we buy a mansion on somewhere with a warm climate, and … begin work.”

“And then _sell_ the technology back to Avalon, I assume.”

“Useful, lucrative, and pleasant for all involved,” Avon said. “Meanwhile your plan is ... attacking the highly defended Space World?”

“It’s not a bad idea––”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

“––but I was actually thinking of Epheron,” Blake continued. “First. We can consider what we do afterwards. Space World should certainly be on the list.”

“Epheron?” Avon said. “Oh, you mean that hellhole you crash landed on after the war. I assume they have some incredibly valuable technology we can steal.”

“No,” Blake said.

“No, I didn’t think so,” Avon said. “In fact, I doubt they have anything we can use at all.”

“That’s rather the point,” Blake said. “They _could_ use the tissue-regenerator, though. And the teleport.”

“A wealthy planet despite appearances, then.”

Blake shook his head. He’d been on the planet six months and in that time he’d seen people queuing to use the only computer-terminal for miles around. He’d seen the hospital that had treated him turning people away because they’d run out of beds, while the people who were treated there were cut open and stitched up with metal tools rather than precision lasers. All the wealth seemed to be in the hands of the small ruling class, but Blake doubted even this would appeal to Avon. The reason the Federation hadn’t bothered to colonise the planet was that it had very little worth taking or using.

He rolled over, pinning Avon beneath him. “How about this – we _sell_ to Avalon, Teal, Vandor and any other systems who can afford to pay, and gift the same technology to people who need it but can’t afford it. Fair?”

“Interesting. My idea first, then?”

“Mm,” Blake said, kissing Avon’s forehead, and then the tip of his nose, and chin. “After all, you said it would only take a few months, didn’t you, Avon?”

“Ah,” Avon said as Blake sucked lightly at the pulse-point in Avon’s neck. “Well, it’s possible I underestimated just a little. A few years, perhaps.”

“If it’s going to take that long, we might as well liberate Space World before we go to Epheron.”

“ _Might_ we?” Avon said. “A little jaunt into almost certain death before an excursion to one of the least interesting planets in the galaxy. I can't wait. And this is what I gave up the presidency for, is it?”

Blake chose not to favour that one with an answer, since he doubted Avon wanted or expected one. He slid to the side, so he was no longer on top of Avon, and held out a hand.

“Six months on the planet of the nubile young scientists and the capitalist mansion of invention … and then we go to Epheron. Deal?”

Avon considered this. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “A year.”

“ _Nine_ months.”

“Done,” Avon said, and shook the offered hand. He looked at their linked hands with genuine surprise. “Hm – that was easy. And now I’m going to sleep before you change your mind.” He switched off the light, and turned determinedly onto his side away from Blake, as though this would protect any bargains made.

Blake lay in the dark thinking for a while longer. None of what they’d done had been easy. Even this decision, a light-hearted deal made in bed, would haunt him as the months ticked past. Change was needed on Epheron, and a thousand other places like it. If they went now he might be able to prevent deaths and suffering that would otherwise be endured, but Avon’s idea wasn’t bad. They  _could_ do more, perhaps even liberate Epheron faster, with the right technology. Therefore it was, on balance, worth waiting. 

In the mean time they had achieved something valuable here together – free men could think and speak; power was back in the hands of the people; and he and Avon had managed to compromise.

 _No,_ Blake thought, pulling Avon back towards himself and burying his face in Avon’s hair, it definitely hadn’t been easy. And there was still so much more to do. But it was a start. It was definitely a start.  

The Beginning


End file.
